








Book iRj£& c) 
Copyright N° ~ a P/^- 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 















































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f 























SIR CHRISTOPHER 
LEIGHTON 

OR 

THE MARQUIS DE VAUDREUIL’S STORY 


BY 

MARIA LONGWORTH STORER ^ 

n 


ST. LOUIS, MO., 1915 
Published by B. Herder 
17 South Broadway 

FREIBURG (Baden) 68, Great Russell Str. 

GERMANY LONDON, W. C. 




Copyright , 1915 
by 

Joseph Gummersbach 


All rights reserved 
Printed in U. S. A. 


©CI.A410730 




This story is dedicated to His Eminence Cardi- 
nal Gibbons , as an expression of deep gratitude 
for personal sympathy and kind encouragement 
during the twenty-three years of my life as a 
Catholic. 


Maria Longworth Storer. 




» 
































PREFACE 


Cardinal’s Residence, Baltimore. 
Dear Mrs. Storer: 

My congratulations to you on having produced a 
book that is so readable and so deserving of being 
read. You have succeeded in treating a serious 
question of present day concern in the most accept- 
able form, a keenly human novel. Your characters 
become real acquaintances, for they live up to their 
description, in their utterances particularly. 

It is such a book as this which deals most effec- 
tively with the vagaries that nowadays so abuse the 
public ear. It makes plain how unfit for the man 
of the work-a-day world, to say nothing of the 
sordid and criminal, are and must be such Isms, 
while on the other hand is shown how the origi- 
nators and apostles are kept from a thorough-go- 
ing adoption of their own tenets by the saving in- 
stincts and wholesomeness of mind and heart which 
they owe to the very teachings they now disparage. 

The counterpart of your story is just what we 
find in the world about us. For there are men 
who, though reading the signs of the times and 
knowing the trend of events, fail to see in them the 


PREFACE 


manifest designs of Providence and strive to 
change the course of events by the excogitation or 
adoption of like principles and creeds. But what is 
written is written; and your book is prophetic. It 
fairly and squarely discredits the Religion of the 
Future. 

Your novel deserves well of the public generally; 
of the Christian public especially, and of Catholics 
in particular. 

I am happy to commend it thus, and thank you for 
your kindness in submitting it to me for apprecia- 
tion. 

(Signed) J. Card. Gibbons. 


May ist, 1914. 


INTRODUCTION 


I have heard it asserted that religion has no fit- 
ting place in a story, like this of mine, part fiction 
and part fact; but I differ entirely from this opin- 
ion. 

A racial trait of the Anglo-Saxon race is to con- 
ceal what is sacred with the same scrupulous care 
with which it seeks to hide what is indecent. There 
is a certain dignity in such reticence which makes 
the explosive emotions of the Latin races both for 
good and evil appear almost grotesque — but to me 
(who am a Latin) there is something very beauti- 
ful (like the demonstrative love of a little child) 
in the free and open expression of religious devo- 
tion; of a faith too strong and sweet to be hidden 
away under unnecessary outward decorum. When 
one looks at it in this way, one can even understand 
the dancing of little children in the procession of 
the Blessed Sacrament at Seville. 

I am convinced also that the relegation of religion 
to a confined and secluded space, however sacred, 
or to a dim background in life, is responsible for 
the dangerous increase of heathenism in the Protes- 
tant world of to-day. I myself should like to see 


INTRODUCTION 


the Lord in the foreground of human lives: in the 
street and in the home, as He walked upon the 
earth. I should like religion once more to be the 
controlling power everywhere — even in the novel 
and on the stage; for the personal influence of al- 
most every distinguished non-Catholic writer of fic- 
tion is exerted in England and America to-day 
against religion and against morality, and I find all 
respectable persons on both sides of the Atlantic 
deploring the corruption and callous cynicism of 
modern society which has surely followed in the 
wake of this propaganda of Negation. 

The civilization of the whole world is threatened; 
for without religion there can be no morality. If 
what I have written can call attention in any way to 
the dangers of a godless humanitarianism, I shall feel 
that my object will have been attained. Since I am 
a “ foreigner ” writing in English, I must ask the 
indulgence of English readers if a French word or 
idiom occasionally slips into my phrases, or if I 
serve myself with some unusual expressions. My 
only hope is that I write clearly enough to be easily 
understood, and that I may believe that “ Tout 
comprendre c’est tout pardonner.” 

Some chapters of my story have been composed 
necessarily from the testimony of others, or woven 
more or less upon the loom of my own fancy. The 
events recorded are so recent, and the people (some 
of them) so conspicuous, that I have been obliged, 


INTRODUCTION 


for obvious reasons, sometimes to alter the names 
of well-known persons and of places. 

As the reader will perceive, I myself — who tell 
this tale — am, in my story, 

“ The Marquis de Vaudreuil/' 


Paris, May, 1913. 

























































































































































SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


PART I 

THE THOUGHT 
CHAPTER I 

O N a certain Sunday in August, 1910, the bell in 
the Cathedral of Clermont-Ferrand was ring- 
ing for the Benediction. 

Among the scattered congregation, composed of 
rich and poor (opulent guests from Roy at and rag- 
ged peasants of Auvergne), a group of four persons, 
kneeling apart, to the right of the centre aisle, stood 
out conspicuous, struck by a slanting shaft of sun- 
light. The most remarkable figure of these four 
was a tall and slim young girl in a jacket and skirt 
of white cloth, worn with the easy grace of that 
perfect physical development which life in a moun- 
tain country, in the open air at high altitudes, can 
produce in children who are not condemned to the 
hardships and bitter privations of poverty. Cold 
and hunger are the enemies of the human race in 
Auvergne and Lozere. When these are overcome, 
the children are sturdy and full of courage and en- 
1 


2 


SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


durance. A splendid race of priests has gone forth 
from the Mountains of the Cevennes, members of 
the exiled religious orders, driven out of France by 
radical persecution. 

This girl, Melanie de Vaudreuil, had spent most 
of her life in the Cevennes Mountains, and was a 
child of the country. Of her three companions two 
were evidently Englishmen. This fact could be 
seen at a glance, not so much by their clothes (for 
many nations patronize the British tailor) as by their 
manner of wearing them. 

Both of these Englishmen were remarkably hand- 
some, their faces more classic than one usually sees 
in the sons of Albion, who certainly are to-day more 
often “ angles ” than “ angels ” (contrary to Saint 
Gregory's traditional exclamation in the Forum four- 
teen hundred years ago) . Their profiles were rather 
Greek than Roman, and their strongly marked eye- 
brows were set in straight lines above eyes so dark 
and luminous that one felt quite sure that some- 
where, far back, there must have been a strain of 
Spanish blood in these indubitable Englishmen. At 
a glance, one could see that they were father and 
son. The likeness was striking, but the contrast 
pathetic ; for the younger man stood on the threshold 
of the world and of life, while the elder was waiting 
at the portal of a premature death. 

The face of Gerald Leighton, the father, was of 
a grey, ashen pallor; his dark eyes were sunk deep 


THE THOUGHT 


3 


in their orbits, and beneath them was a violet dis- 
coloration. His hair was thick and of a silver-grey, 
and his thin hands, now clasped in prayer, looked 
like the carved ivory hands of a mediaeval saint. 
His son Harry, on the contrary, was the very em- 
bodiment of youth, life and strength; the pale olive 
of his skin transfused by the glow of vivid and 
healthy sunburn. He was as splendid a young crea- 
ture as the modern cult for “ Hygiene ” could aspire 
to evolve, but nevertheless he was, like his father, a 
fervent Catholic. 

Gerald Leighton, my old and dear friend, had for 
a long time been suffering from a sclerosis of the 
arteries, and we all could see now that the end was 
near, — a consummation which he accepted with the 
dignity and patience of a true Christian; a most 
striking contrast to the neurasthenic modern heathen 
who kicks against every prick, and even clamours for 
the “ euthanasia ” recommended by homicidal Eu- 
genist philanthropy ! 

The third man in this group was the Marquis 
de Vaudreuil. He, too, was clad in English clothes 
(for he invariably went to a London tailor), but 
he did not wear them like an Englishman. They 
fitted him more closely, according to the taste and 
habit of a Frenchman. His hair, too, was more 
smoothly brushed ; shining with a touch of “ brillan- 
tine,” unlike the crisp short hair of his English 
friends. He had blue-grey eyes, rather prominent, 


4 


SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


in a slightly florid face; the combined flush of good 
cheer and of out-of-door life. His hair was still 
dark brown, but in the twisted ends of a decidedly 
red moustache there gleamed a few stiff and in- 
sistent silver hairs. (How hard it is for a man to 
describe himself!) The young girl, Melanie, was 
the Marquis de Vaudreuil’s only child. These four 
people had come together at Royat with a purpose 
on the part of the two parents, and with a lively 
curiosity in the minds of Harry Leighton and 
Melanie; for, since they were children, they had 
never met. Their fathers had arranged, before- 
hand, a matrimonial alliance very satisfactory for 
themselves, after the sage French custom; but these 
wise elders had prudently refrained from giving 
any hint of their plans to the young people, only 
leaving them together more frequently and inti- 
mately than is ever permitted to the French “ jeune 
fille bien gardee.” The result of this freedom of 
thought and action was that Harry and Melanie, of 
course, fell in love with each other at once and of 
their own accord. They were now affianced and 
the wedding was arranged to take place about the 
end of October. 

Mademoiselle du Parquet, who had been for years 
the companion and duenna of Melanie, as well as 
superintendent of the Marquis’s household at the 
Chateau Saint-Lambert and at his hotel in Paris, 
was greatly shocked and distressed at all these for- 


THE THOUGHT 


5 


eign goings on. She was a bony, vellum-bound 
spinster, rather protuberant about the wrists and the 
knuckles of two pale, yellow hands, which were in- 
variably encased in black lace mittens. She had an 
aristocratic (what she called a “ Bourbon ”) nose, 
somewhat red in summer and blue in winter; two 
pale-grey eyes with heavy upper lids, slightly swol- 
len, and two precise bands of sandy-brown hair, 
brushed flat on either side of a lightly freckled and 
gently furrowed brow. These smooth bands of 
hair were surmounted at night by a black lace cap, 
and in the day time by a narrow scarf of black 
chenille. Mademoiselle du Parquet was, at this 
moment, seated in the window of her room on the 
third floor of the Hotel Bellevue at Royat, where 
the whole party had descended four weeks before. 
She was engaged in writing a letter to her cousin, 
the Comtesse de Gabriac. 

This letter came into my hands and I made a 
copy of it. I translate a part of it here, because it 
will inform the reader as to some facts, and really 
describe us (our family and our circumstances) 
much better than I could do it myself. 

“ When people have English and American blood 
in their veins, my dear Elise, they openly rebel 
against all those rules of conduct which our ances- 
tors sanctioned and maintained, and which we our- 
selves, in our youth, so strictly observed. My 
cousin Adolphe has permitted Melanie to walk alone, 


6 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


in the park in front of our hotel with this young 
Englishman, her fiance, every day once or twice ; and 
sometimes even at sunset just before dinner. We 
can only hope that the marriage may soon take 
place, and that I shall be relieved of the heavy bur- 
den which anxiety (without authority) puts upon 
my shoulders. 

“ It is now the 8th of August, and the Marquis 
speaks of having the wedding celebrated in the pri- 
vate chapel of his hotel in the Rue Monsieur about 
the middle of October. Meanwhile, there is to be 
the annual visit to England (where such behavior 
as I have described is not conspicuous, England hav- 
ing become, alas, a land of independence for our 
sex). I have invariably looked forward with dread, 
as you know, to seeing Lady Bolton, Melanie’s 
grandmother; whether as her guest in London or 
when she comes to Saint-Lambert for her annual 
visit. That woman, my dear, has been all over the 
world, during a whole lifetime, with her English 
diplomat husband (the late British Ambassador in 
Vienna) ; but she has never cast off her “ ameri- 
canisme ” nor any of her extraordinary personal ec- 
centricities. For me, as you know, she is an en- 
tirely barbarous person. 

“ Her own daughter (Melanie’s poor young 
mother) was not a bit like Lady Bolton. She re- 
sembled the English papa — but alas! my dear 
Melanie, who has her mother’s delicate features, fair 


THE THOUGHT 


7 


skin and red-gold hair, has also inherited her grand- 
mother’s keen, brown falcon’s eyes and, above all, 
she has inherited Lady Bolton’s sharp and nimble 
tongue. 

“ I have never succeeded in softening and polish- 
ing the dear child’s manners as I could wish ; nor in 
keeping her always in the background, where a well 
trained young girl ought to maintain herself. Of 
course, these last five school years at Roehampton 
have taken her from me for all but three months of 
each year and the Christmas holidays, as at Easter 
she has always stayed with her grandmother in Lon- 
don. In consequence, I could not prevent her from 
becoming so “ anglicised.” After all, if she is to 
marry an Englishman, I suppose it is all for the best, 
and Mr. ‘ Harry ’ (a short name for Henri) Leigh- 
ton is a very good match, and enormously rich, or 
will be when his father, poor man, departs this life; 
and he is dying of a hardening of the arteries. The 
doctor here at Royat says the end may come at any 
time, quite suddenly, since his heart is very weak. 

“ You know, Monsieur Gerald Leighton’s wife 
(nee Lucy Ashton) and Melanie’s mother were such 
intimate friends a long time ago in Madrid (Lady 
Bolton’s husband was first secretary of the British 
Embassy at the time). These two young girls and 
the Dona Dolores de Toledo (the Duke and Duchess 
de Aguilar’s daughter) were inseparable, and the 
two English girls were received into the church at 


8 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


the same time that Dona Dolores retired from the 
world into a convent. She became a Dame du Sacre 
Cceur and was in Paris for many years afterwards. 
Since the order has been exiled from France, she lives 
at the great convent and academy of the Sacred 
Heart at Roehampton, near London. She really had 
there a very good influence upon Melanie, and the 
child loves her dearly. I hear with pain that the 
Mere Dolores is dangerously ill of typhoid fever, 
and the Duke and the Duchess have hired a house 
in London, I think in Berkeley Square, in order to 
be near their daughter. Their former chaplain, the 
Padre Alvarez, is in London with them. He is the 
priest who instructed Harry’s mother and Melanie’s 
when they became Catholics, more than twenty-five 
(nearer thirty) years ago in Madrid. How small 
the world is! 

“ Do not think, ma chere, from anything that I 
have written, that I am not fond of the dear little 
Melanie. I always was fond of her, even when she 
was the mischievous small girl who played so many 
tricks upon me. Melanie has a good heart, and, 
after all, that is the most important thing for a 
woman. 

“ Marriage will probably tame her, even an Eng- 
lish marriage. But, as to her grandmother, Lady 
Bolton, I find her absolutely insupportable!” 


CHAPTER II 


M ademoiselle du parquet finished 

her letter and put it carefully into an en- 
velope. Then the good old lady, who was always 
tormented by “ scruples,” sat down, before sealing 
and directing it, in pensive meditation. Her 
thoughts ran thus : “ Ought I to accept the hos- 

pitality of Lady Bolton after writing as I have 
written, and feeling as I do ? ” She was given to 
these solitary and self-tormenting meditations con- 
cerning all of the small events of her very harmless 
life. She called them an “ examination of con- 
science.” After a few moments spent in this mild 
form of mental jiu-jitsu , she arrived at a resolve, 
which made her get up with an air of firm deter- 
mination. She placed the unsealed and undirected 
letter in the wide-mouthed and steel-beaded black 
reticule, which was always depending from her 
wrist and which contained an infinite number of 
miscellaneous articles, ranging from jam-closet keys 
and cough lozenges to rosaries and devotional med- 
als. 

“ I shall show this letter to my cousin Adolphe,” 
she said. “ I feel that I owe it to him ; for there 
9 


10 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


are in it other personalities and criticisms also, 
which he ought to see. He shall decide ! ” 

Deep down in her heart was a glimmer of hope 
that her cousin Adolphe might let her off from the 
dreaded London visit and then she would go at once 
to her dear Elise de Gabriac, and could make this 
joyful announcement in a postscript after I had re- 
turned the letter. (This, of course, is what hap- 
pened.) 

Caroline du Parquet is a good old soul, and as 
transparent to me, in all her old-fashioned preju- 
dices and small emotions as a pane of window-glass, 
though she prides herself upon being reticent and 
self-contained. 

At this moment, the aggressive snort and pant of 
a motor-car coming nearer and nearer smote upon 
the peaceful air, and, drawing a black knitted shawl 
closely about her throat (she had already a cautious 
wad of cotton in each ear), Mademoiselle du Par- 
quet opened one-half of the casement window, letting 
in to the rather frowsy atmosphere a breath of 
warm August sunshine, which she dreaded and 
shrank from as a dangerous “ courant d’air” 
Leaning from the window, she gazed eagerly down 
the road to the left of the park and descried an 
English motor-car, driven by an Irish chauffeur, ap- 
proaching rapidly. It was a landau, uncovered. 
Inside on the back seat were Gerald Leighton and 
Melanie, and facing them, bending towards her, sat 


THE THOUGHT 


ii 


Harry Leighton. His father leaned back against 
a pile of cushions, with closed eyes and a face drawn 
tense by pain and weariness. He had been having 
frequent fits of suffocation since he came to Royat, 
the stiffening arteries seeming scarcely able to draw 
the blood away from a languid heart. Beside him, 
Melanie glowed and bloomed like a fresh wild rose 
against a sere and yellow autumn leaf. She was 
smiling at Harry, which deepened the dimple in her 
left cheek. The sun struck full upon her face and, 
lighting up its diadem of red-gold hair, set it on fire 
like a halo of heavenly light, — if one may imagine 
a halo under the brim of a very large, black gauze 
hat. Harry Leighton could; for in Melanie, side 
by side with her youth and vitality and mischief, 
there was a touch of mystic mediaevalism that trans- 
figured her face when she was in church with the in- 
nocent radiance of Fra Angelico’s saints and angels. 

Faith and prayer had always for her (even as a 
little child) been very serious matters; the only 
things, in fact, which she ever did take seriously. 
She was a mischievous little elf, with a wonderful 
talent for mimicry and caricature and an impetuous 
overflow of glad animal spirits. Otherwise, I 
should have felt really anxious about the child as be- 
ing too good for this world. I suppose that this 
devout spirit has been a direct inheritance from her 
great-grandmothers, those martyrs of the Revolu- 
tion; for Melanie has in her veins the blood of the 


12 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


Marechale de Noailles and of her daughter, the 
Duchesse d’Ayen, who perished together on the 
scaffold in the Place de la Republique; almost the 
last victims of the expiring Reign of Terror. 

I remember, when Melanie was about five years 
old, she was playing one day with little “ Tin-tin ” 
de la Beauce. His mother, the Marquise (whose 
day of reception it was), espied her through the 
open door of the salon, and called to her to come in, 
saying : 

“ I am told, Mademoiselle, that you can sing very 
well. ‘ Chantez nous, done, quelquechose ’ ! ” A 
number of visitors, men and women, were assembled 
taking tea. They all expected to hear “ The fox 
and the crow,” “ Monsieur Polichinelle ” or perhaps 
“ Au clair de la lune.” But the small Melanie, 
planting her feet wide apart, and proudly swelling 
out her chest, intoned in a loud, full voice the 
“ Dixit Dominus! ” She looked so exactly like the 
old Cure of Sainte Clothilde (where she had picked 
it up) that the whole company went off into fits of 
laughter. At this, Melanie’s feelings were deeply 
wounded, for she had meant it in all seriousness and 
reverence. She strode out of the house, shaking 
the dust from her feet, and bearing away a piece 
of “ galette ” to eat at home far from this madding 
crowd and its profane mirth. (But the pride of a 
doting parent tempts me to wander away from my 


THE THOUGHT 


13 

story; for I could tell anecdotes of Melanie all day 
long.) 

The motor-car whirled around the corner and 
drew up at the steps of the hotel. The Marquis 
had lingered behind in Clermont-Ferrand, to call 
upon some friends and to return later in the train. 
Mademoiselle du Parquet, beholding Melanie alight 
without her natural protector, flew swiftly down in 
the lift and, seizing upon the “ dear child,” bore her 
aloft with an air of rescue. 

Gerald Leighton and Harry left Royat for Eng- 
land the next day. The strength of the dying man 
held out until they arrived at Ravenshurst, the big 
house by the sea in Sussex, and his life ebbed away 
with the falling tide a week later. He died at sun- 
set; Harry and the parish priest and Harry's old 
nurse, Norah, knelt by his bedside at the last, and a 
small fox-terrier crouched broken-hearted at his 
feet. They had to drag the poor old dog away 
when the body was placed in the coffin. 

Sir Christopher Leighton arrived at Ravenshurst 
the morning of the funeral. The two brothers had 
not been intimate for years. Idle rumor said that 
their respective wives (now many years dead) had 
been to blame for the estrangement, and that differ- 
ence in religion was the cause of it. 

Since Harry Leighton had come of age, however, 


14 


SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


he had been a frequent visitor at Leighton Towers, 
and at Leighton House when Sir Christopher was in 
London, and he was very fond of his cousin Con- 
stance, Sir Christopher’s only child. Gossip said 
that Sir Christopher would have looked with favor 
upon a marriage uniting the family fortunes, in spite 
of Harry’s Catholic faith (which his uncle looked 
upon as a curable, inherited disease), and it was 
whispered that he deeply resented his brother’s re- 
fusal to consider for a moment such an alliance on 
the grounds both of near relationship and the dif- 
ference in religion. It was asserted that the 
brothers had scarcely ever seen each other during 
the last two years. Sir Christopher used to say: 
“ The Roman Church has built a Chinese wall round 
poor Gerald,” and Gerald Leighton had in truth be- 
come a voluntary recluse since his fatal illness be- 
gan. He had never once gone to London during 
these last two years, and had let his house in Eaton 
Square to Lady Bolton for a term of three years, 
during which time Harry had hired rooms in town 
not far from the Embankment, which he occupied 
for flying visits to London when he could leave his 
father. 

The news of Harry’s engagement had not been a 
joy to Sir Christopher, although he had now given 
up definitely his dream of an alliance between Harry 
and Constance (which neither of the young people 
had ever desired, being quite content with fraternal 


THE THOUGHT 


15 


affection toward one another). They even had 
laughed in his face at “ poor papa’s match-making 
mania ” as Constance called it ; at which Sir Chris- 
topher was enraged; forgiving Constance, whom he 
adored, for her remark, but not Harry for laughing 
at it. To Sir Christopher this was no laughing mat- 
ter, and he was a man who kept the memory of per- 
sonal offences always fresh and green. 

The Marquis de Vaudreuil and Melanie had has- 
tened their departure from France upon the news 
of Gerald Leighton’s death. They came to the 
funeral attended by Sydney Bolton, Lady Bolton’s 
nephew, whose engagement had just been announced 
to Constance Leighton. 

The whole party met together in front of the 
Catholic Church at Warmouth, where the requiem 
mass was to be celebrated. Gerald Leighton, and 
his wife while she lived, had always attended the 
parish church rather than build a private chapel at 
Ravenshurst, because their presence stimulated the 
piety of the few village people who were Catholics, 
and encouraged the parish priest in his hard work 
among the poor and the possibly backsliding mem- 
bers of his flock. 

When the mass was ended, the body of Gerald 
Leighton was placed beside his wife in the family 
vault, and the persons I have mentioned drove back 
in carriages to Ravenshurst for breakfast. Sir 
Christopher, who had been very restive during the 


1 6 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


“ Popish " mass, was also fidgety over the slow 
pace of the horses, intolerable to a motoring spirit 
in a world given over to reckless speed. He sat 
alone with Harry in the first carriage, and apolo- 
gised for the absence of his daughter Constance and 
of Lady Louisa Linton, a sister of Sir Christopher's 
wife, who had been a timid spinster-mother (I trust 
the expression does not sound improper : it is so de- 
scriptive) to Constance ever since the death of Lady 
Leighton. “ They really were not strong enough, 
either of them, to undertake a tiring night journey, 
my dear boy," said Sir Christopher, “ but we are 
hoping that you will come to us very quietly, say 
Thursday of next week, and I shall ask my niece 
that is to be and her relations for the week-end. 
Of course, your future grandmother-in-law, Lady 
Bolton, as Sydney’s aunt, is almost a member of my 
own family also." 

Sir Christopher made a wry face as he named 
Lady Bolton. In the bosom of his family, he al- 
ways called her “ the she-dragon." 

When the party assembled at the breakfast table, 
Sir Christopher tried to dispel the pervasive gloom 
with an attempt at genial good-humour; but he did 
not give the impression that he was really pleased 
with Harry’s engagement to Melanie, although he 
professed himself to be “ delighted." The break- 
fast, in spite of Sir Christopher’s efforts at sociabil- 
ity, was a rather silent one and hasty. Everybody 


THE THOUGHT 


1 7 


felt uncomfortable or depressed, and poor Harry 
was too nearly overcome by grief either to talk or 
eat. It was indeed a dreary meal, and Sir Chris- 
topher hastened away immediately after, taking 
Sydney Bolton with him. He had invited the en- 
tire company to Leighton Towers for the end of the 
following week, and everybody had accepted. 


CHAPTER III 


L ADY BOLTON and her nephew by marriage, 
Sydney Bolton, lived at this time in Gerald 
Leighton’s large house in Eaton Square. They 
were vagrant in their habits, and London saw 
them only for about three months, the spring 
months, of each year. 

Sydney Bolton, being a cured “ poitrinaire for 
the last two years had not ventured to risk a winter 
in England. At twenty years old, six years before 
this tale begins, he had started on a career of diplo- 
macy as attache to his uncle, Sir Frederick Bolton, 
at the British Embassy in Vienna ; but the next sum- 
mer found him at Davos, with the beginning of 
tuberculosis in one lung. His uncle had died sud- 
denly in Vienna three months before this time, and 
his uncle’s widow was giving all her intelligence and 
energy to taking care of Sydney. 

More than fifty years ago, Lady Bolton was Miss 
Charlotte Hamilton of Philadelphia. She was mar- 
ried a year or two later to the Hon. Frederick Bol- 
ton, at that time second Secretary at the British 
Legation in Washington, and she accompanied her 
husband through a diplomatic career of nearly half 
18 


THE THOUGHT 


19 


a century. Lady Bolton had most emphatically 
surveyed life with an “ extended view ” and profited 
by a wide experience. (Although of diametrically 
opposite temperaments, the Marquis de Vaudreuil 
and his mother-in-law have always been very fond 
of each other. He used often to say, “ My belle- 
mere and I, combined, would make a complete whole 
personality. She always rushes into action, while I 
inevitably pause, unready and over-cautious, on the 
brink. Her energy and my prudence would com- 
plement each other and make a perfect balance/’ 
Lady Bolton has always “ pooh-poohed ” this asser- 
tion and declared that she needed no caution, and 
whenever I have manifested my characteristic hesi- 
tation to decide anything whatever, great or small, 
she would exclaim : “ Adolphe ! are you a man or 

a mouse ? ” And my invariable reply has been, “ A 
mouse, my beloved belle-mere, always a mouse!”) 

Lady Bolton has a great nose, the nose of a com- 
mander-in-chief. It is so long as to give one at 
first the impression that her eyes are too near to- 
gether. They are keen brown eyes like a hawk’s, 
and what they do not see is not worth seeing. Her 
mouth is rather nondescript, all kinds of varying 
expressions hovering simultaneously about its cor- 
ners ; except when it widens into a vast smile which 
shows the absence of a tooth or two in the back- 
ground. This smile illuminates her face, and yet, 
in expression, it is a smile almost ferocious, causing 


20 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


Melanie to exclaim often in delight: “ Granny is 
so like a grizzly bear ! ” 

Wherever Lady Bolton has settled herself tem- 
porarily upon the inhabited globe, she has always 
selected her own particular coterie according to 
what she calls her “ imprejudicate instincts ” and I 
may say that this sixth sense has hardly ever led her 
astray. After private life was thrust upon her, her 
paramount worry was the remoteness of many of 
those whom she loved, scattered all over the world 
and strangers to one another. She would like to 
have gathered them all together under her wings. 
“ I feel like a foolish old hen sitting on bricks in a 
brickyard,” she exclaimed when informed by Syd- 
ney and Melanie (whom she called her children) of 
their simultaneous matrimonial intentions. “ I 
have now absolutely nothing to hatch, and nobody 
to scratch for ! ” 

Lady Bolton’s stern and granitic features have 
been softened as she has grown older, by a dazzling 
and surprising abundance of silver- white hair, 
beetling like eternal snow above the cliff of her steep 
and narrow forehead. It is always brushed back 
and rolled high over her ears and brow in the style 
called “ Pompadour,” an appellation which (I need 
scarcely say) Lady Bolton has highly resented 
whenever she sees it coupled with her own name in 
newspaper “ society ” notices, such as : “ Lady 


THE THOUGHT 


21 


Bolton’s beautiful white hair was arranged a la 
Pompadour! ” 

In the early morning this crowning glory is half 
concealed by a small, white muslin cap, and at night 
by cobwebs of wonderful lace, old and exquisite. 
The ample bodice of her evening dresses is always 
swathed in billows of white lace; of which she has 
a most beautiful collection, fit for a museum. What 
she wears underneath this antique splendour mat- 
ters not at all either to her or to anybody else. 
Most often it is some ancient gown of purple or 
black velvet, which has seen and outlived many dip- 
lomatic functions. Lady Bolton is tall as well as 
massive, and holds herself superbly, as though dis- 
dainful of the burden of more than three-score years 
and ten. She is also very active on her legs for 
her age and weight, climbing indefatigably the arid 
mountains of the Cevennes during her annual visits 
to Saint-Lambert. 

(Thus do I strive with my inadequate pen to 
sketch a portrait of Lady Bolton, that amazing com- 
bination of grande dame and grizzly bear — a 
woman of sound heart and of imperishable wit and 
vitality; one whom custom never stales, and of a 
variety so infinite that one never knows what she 
may be going to do or say next. It is needless to 
repeat what might go without saying, but I never 
tire of exclaiming: “ J’adore ma belle-mere! ”) 


CHAPTER IV 


4 4 T CALL this most unfortunate — most unfortu- 
X nate ! ” cried Sir Christopher Leighton, look- 
ing up from a letter which he had just opened. 

He was seated at the breakfast-table on the ter- 
race outside the dining-room at Leighton Towers. 
Opposite to him, behind the coffee-pot and tea-urn, 
sat his sister-in-law, Lady Louisa Linton; on his 
right hand Constance, and on his left Sydney Bolton, 
who had returned with Sir Christopher the day be- 
fore from Gerald Leighton’s funeral. Sir Chris- 
topher’s family circle was really a triangle : he and 
Lady Louisa formed the base, and his only child, 
Constance (the apple of their eyes), the crowning 
apex. Sir Christopher had for Constance that kind 
of devotion which strong creatures feel toward 
those who are frail and delicate. He never was 
rough or overbearing toward her, and her slightest 
wish was law to him. It was the only authority 
which he absolutely obeyed. 

For a thoroughly spoiled child Constance was 
really a very nice one. She was petite and well-pro- 
portioned, reminding one of a Tanagra figurine, 
with small classic head and high narrow shoulders. 

22 


THE THOUGHT 


23 


She was swift and graceful too in all her movements 
and an admirable dancer. Her complexion was 
pink-and- white, and her hair really golden; or pur. 
The one defect in her small face was characteristic 
of her nationality: she had a very retreating little 
chin, and her white front teeth were so prominent 
that her pink lips were usually half parted, giving 
her an air of great naivete. She was, however, 
quite clever enough to laugh at her own innocent 
expression, and, when a very small girl, she had as- 
serted that her profile had a “ rabbit look, or else 
like the Hatter,” and held up Alice in Wonderland 
for Sir Christopher to inspect and decide. He had 
called her his “ March Hare ” from that moment. 
Constance’s peculiarly English type is far prettier 
in a woman than in a man. English men of this 
genre are apt to look rather washy. They run to 
weak whiskers and hair parted in the middle, and 
they exclaim “ Aoh ! ” when spoken to. I have 
seen timid young curates like this, at whom one 
would not look twice. But in a girl, pink-and- 
white, with blue eyes — it is really very winning ; 
such a sweet contrast to the vandal suffragette, who 
is so far from being seduisante! Nobody with a 
profile like Constance’s would ever think of breaking 
a window ! Constance, this gentle little rodent, was 
an astonishing offspring, certainly, for Sir Chris- 
topher. In type or genus he was distinctly feline, 
but of the large carnivora species. Like Nimrod, 


24 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


he was a mighty hunter. To destroy animals, 
whether furred or feathered, was his “ grande pas- 
sion ” 

The third member of Sir Christopher’s house- 
hold, the Lady Louisa, looked like a mild merino 
sheep. She was timid and very easily shocked. 
Lady Bolton said of her : “ Lady Louisa has been 
brought up on the very safe axiom that * everything 
is improper ! ’ ” 

Lady Louisa knitted quietly a great deal in soft 
white wools, and her grey hair, parted carefully in 
the middle, hung in two low festoons on either side 
of her face, concealing all but the tips of her pink 
ears, from which every evening hung old-fashioned 
pearl and diamond earrings, with “ drops,” which 
her mother and grandmother had worn before her. 
As her hair was curly, and the parting not yet too 
wide, Lady Louisa wore no cap or headdress, and 
this heightened her resemblance to the innocent ani- 
mal I mentioned. In fact, I believe Melanie once 
discovered a striking likeness of Lady Louisa among 
Grandville’s illustrations of the “Fables de La - 
fontaine 

The fourth and last member of this breakfast 
party I might liken to a very nice dog. He had a 
vivacious, clever and kindly bull-terrier face, with a 
humorous nose and thin-lipped smiling mouth, al- 
ways turned up at the corners. But Sydney Bol- 
ton’s eyes are of a fine deep blue, with black lashes, 


THE THOUGHT 


25 


not those pink-lidded slits that belong to the faith- 
ful bull-terrier, and always give to that worthy dog 
a cunning expression which belies him. (I once 
knew a bull-terrier who was the image of an astute 
American multi-millionaire.) Sydney Bolton al- 
ways wore eye-glasses which added to the preter- 
naturally clever expression of his keen eyes. 
Melanie, I remember, once said of him, when she 
was an observant child of twelve: “ Sydney is 
visibly de race, but nevertheless he has the wonder- 
fully keen intelligence of the mongrel, which I am ! ” 
Of course Lady Bolton was delighted with this re- 
mark and always remembered it. “ It was such a 
high compliment to both of us, you and me, my 
dear,” said Grandmamma, “ for we are intelligent, 
God be praised ! ” 

“ I call this unfortunate,” repeated Sir Christo- 
pher, smiting the breakfast-table with the open let- 
ter. He had a rather heavy hand, well-shaped' but 
tanned and freckled from out-of-door life, and sug- 
gestive, I always thought, of power, and even of 
violence. The hair on his head was of russet gold 
growing thick and sprinkled with silver. It was 
very curly, which he despised, and so he kept it, 
both in winter and summer, cropped quite close to 
his head. His nose was broad at the nostrils and 
rather short, but his whole face was of more than 
average length, by reason of a long upper lip and a 
heavy projecting jaw and chin; upon which grew a 


26 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


thick moustache and a full yellow beard, also 
streaked with silver. The moustache was twisted 
up at the ends and the beard trimmed quite square, 
but hanging low enough to hide his neck-tie and con- 
ceal Constance’s little presents of scarf-pins, which 
he was willing to wear because they did not show. 
When one caught a glimpse of Sir Christopher’s 
teeth under the ambush of his heavy moustache, one 
was struck by a peculiar irregularity. The four 
front teeth were quite straight but the two eye- 
teeth on either side projected like small tusks, sug- 
gesting to me always the “ wild boar of the Ar- 
dennes.” Nevertheless Sir Christopher had been, 
and still was, an unusually handsome man, with a 
splendid figure, six feet three, which he kept strong 
and alert by an active life of uninterrupted riding 
and shooting. He had never missed the former 
exercise even in the spring months which he now 
spent each year in London, nor during the time 
when he was a very active member of Parliament, 
from which he had retired three years before. He 
was at this time about fifty-six years old. 

Sir Christopher had completely fascinated his 
fragile little wife, who had idolized him during their 
short married life. He was so big and strong, and 
Lady “ Lily ” had been slim and delicate, like Con- 
stance. She died very reluctantly, fearing that he 
might “ replace ” her, but this Sir Christopher had 
not done, either through distaste for women in gen- 


THE THOUGHT 


27 


eral or perhaps for lack of opportunity or tempta- 
tion; for he hated all society except that of men; 
his preference being for those of active influence 
in politics, or else keen sportsmen. But I must go 
back to his breakfast-table! 

“We are waiting to hear/' said Constance, pat- 
ting her father’s big hand that held the letter. 
“ What is unfortunate? Is anybody dead who will 
be mourned or missed?” 

Sir Christopher glanced at Sydney before reply- 
ing; and then: “ I consider it unfortunate,” he ex- 
plained, “ that Lady Bolton and her French grand- 
daughter and the Marquis de Vaudreuil should be 
obliged to meet Professor Wilson of Harvard here 
next week. I had intended keeping them apart, and 
I invited the Professor from Wednesday to Satur- 
day, and now he writes me that he can only come on 
Saturday, if that will suit me, and he must leave 
next day.” 

“ But there is plenty of room for three times as 
many guests,” protested Constance. 

“ It is not a question of numbers,” retorted her 
father testily. “ It is a question of being congenial 
and sympathetic. Harry (I need not say) is a 
bigoted papist, and he will be here too. The Mar- 
quis is — a French papist (which may mean any- 
thing unreasonable) ; and Lady Bolton is always 
proclaiming herself from the housetops a ‘ Church- 
woman/ Now I have told you that Professor Wil- 


28 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


son is the apostle of Religious Liberty and Reason. 
He is considered to be the most enlightened mind in 
the new world, and has come to England especially 
to address the great International Congress of Eu- 
genists in London two weeks from now.” 

“ Let him try his hand at converting all of us. 
Let him thrust in and reap, if he can. It will be 
fun ! ” cried Constance with malice. She had al- 
ready fought fiercely with her father over some pas- 
sages which Sir Christopher had read aloud from a 
lecture delivered by the Professor two weeks before 
(one of a series of six) in London. 

Sydney Bolton, throwing back his head, laughed 
aloud. “ I pity the Professor if he tackles Aunt 
Charlotte ! ” he cried. “ She won’t leave him a leg 
to stand on.” 

“ Come, come, this is no laughing matter, Syd- 
ney,” objected Sir Christopher. “ The Professor 
is a great scholar and a gentleman. He is accus- 
tomed to being listened to, in his own country, with 
attention and respect. It will not do for his mental 
inferiors either to hold such a man up to ridicule 
or to attempt to wrangle with him. If these people 
must all meet here — and I see no help for it — 
your respected Aunt Charlotte, Sydney, shall be 
bound over to keep the peace. She really must shut 
up her private prejudices and opinions within her- 
self.” 

An hour later Sydney and Constance were out 


THE THOUGHT 


29 


under the big beech-trees in the park. They were 
walking hand-in-hand, for there was nobody in 
sight, and they were romantic young lovers. 

“We really must persuade dear Lady Bolton to 
keep quiet, mustn’t we, dear ? ” said Constance, 
“ even under provocation.” 

“ Yes, darling, we must try,” Sydney replied, 
“ but you don’t know dear Aunt Charlotte as well as 
I do. Did you never hear of the Irish lady who 
always r began the conversation with a repartee ’ ? ” 


CHAPTER V 


L ADY BOLTON had closed her country house 
three weeks before this time, and had come 
up to town to stay until she should go to Saint-Lam- 
bert ; the approaching weddings having upset all her 
habits. 

On that same morning, she and Melanie were 
seated after breakfast in a very cosy sitting-room, 
which Lady Bolton called her den. Through the 
deep, pillared porch outside, filled with pots of as- 
ters, white, yellow and purple, a misty sun was striv- 
ing to penetrate, slanting a friendly smile upon 
Melanie, who held in her lap a very small Maltese 
dog, a female. This creature was a wisp of a thing, 
all white, but for three moist black spots in a con- 
fused and fleecy face. Upon an ottoman near by, 
Lady Bolton’s white Angora cat, Ophelia, lay; 
rolled up in a huge ball on a blue cushion, the bushy 
plumes of a tail curled about her nose, and her tur- 
quoise eyes tightly shut. These two spoiled dar- 
lings did not come to open hostility when obliged 
to live under the same roof. They silently ignored 
the existence of each other, like well-bred people 
who are not on speaking terms. 

“ My dear,” said Lady Bolton, who was seated in 
a huge armchair, engaged upon some embroidery, 
30 


THE THOUGHT 


3i 


which she loved to make but which always seemed 
incongruous as being too feminine an occupation 
for so massive a person. “ My dear, we are going 
this morning to see my poor little friend, Cosmo 
Blight, and I’ll tell you a rather long story about 
him if you care to hear it.” 

“ I remember that he is the crippled artist who 
wrote to you four months ago when you came back 
from Florence,” answered Melanie. “ Oh, yes, 
Bonnemaman, I should like to hear all about him. 
You wrote to me only that you had known him fifty 
years ago. That seems like the moyen age ” 

“ It was ages ago, my dear,” said Lady Bolton. 
“ Well, to begin at the beginning. There came to 
Philadelphia at that remote period a little English 
miniature painter. I believe his name originally 
was plain John Blight; but he tacked onto it 
4 Cosmo ’ for picturesque effect. At first he was J. 
Cosmo Blight, but later he shed the J. because he 
fancied it did not look or sound so well as ‘ Cosmo ’ 
by itself. He had a sister married somewhere in 
the wild West, and he had come to America espe- 
cially to make her a visit at Keokuk or Oshkosh or 
something like it; but he began to get so many or- 
ders for miniatures that he decided to stay in Phila- 
delphia, and he settled himself there for several 
years, going occasionally to New York or Boston 
or Washington to paint some distinguished or beau- 
tiful person. He was especially in demand to paint 


32 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

pretty women, whom he adored, or little children 
whom he loved. He was a vain and gentle little 
creature.” Lady Bolton paused, looked hard at 
Melanie, and then boldly asserted : “ I was a fine- 

looking young woman myself in those days, my 
dear, though I say it; and Cosmo Blight painted a 
miniature of me for my father just before I was 
married. It represented a tall girl in white, with a 
big nose, brown eyes and two bunches of curly 
hair, worn, to please my father, after the fashion 
of a previous generation. She stood near a balus- 
trade in a garden, with her hands full of roses. 
It was very prettily painted. My poor father loved 
that miniature so dearly that he kept it always on 
his writing-table in the library, while I was so far 
away. He used to say, when he wrote, that I was 
always before him, my eyes looking into his. Well, 
my dear, when he died, I was in Japan, and the little 
picture was buried with him. He had asked for it.” 

Lady Bolton cleared her throat, threaded her 
needle with another shade of silk, and went on: 
“ That little artist was twenty-five years old fifty 
years ago. He was terribly hump-backed — born 
so — but nimble on his legs. He had bright steel- 
blue eyes, thick and curly brown hair, and a little 
dark moustache, twisted and waxed at the ends. 
He had very white teeth, which he showed often. 
He was vain about his face, I think, and did not 
seem to mind at all about his hump, often making 


THE THOUGHT 


33 


humorous allusions to it. He used to say that clever 
men before him — such as /Esop and Alexander 
Pope — • had been ‘ crooked little things/ He was a 
great favourite with frivolous women, especially 
the actresses and singers whom he painted, and they 
rather spoiled him. Well, my dear, not long after 
he painted me I married and went away. Cosmo 
also departed from Philadelphia, returning to Eng- 
land. From that time until four months ago (last 
April) I never once heard of little Cosmo Blight. 
I should probably have forgotten him altogether 
but for the miniature that my father had loved and 
that was buried with him. It kept the memory of 
the little artist green. About four months ago, just 
after Sydney and I had come back from Florence 
to London, I got a letter one morning at breakfast 
time, addressed in a small, fine Italian hand, like 
copper-plate engraving. I opened it, wondering 
who the writer could be. The letter was very short. 
‘ Dear Lady Bolton,’ it said, 4 if you have not for- 
gotten me, come to the address written above and 
save a wretched man from suicide. Cosmo.’ That 
was all. Of course, I ordered the carriage and 
drove at once to a respectable-looking house, in an 
out-of-the-way place. I don’t remember where. 
There was a lift that carried us up to the third floor. 
Everything outside seemed neat and orderly. The 
door was newly painted and on a brass plate, re- 
cently scoured, was the name ‘ Blight.’ The door 


34 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

was opened by a sour- faced elderly woman, evi- 
dently not a servant. She was dressed in a rusty 
black jacket and skirt, and with a shapeless black 
bonnet on her grizzled head. She seemed surprised 
and not pleased to see me. However, as James the 
footman stood behind me in all his dignity, she let 
me in on my inquiry for Mr. Cosmo Blight, and 
reluctantly conducted me through the entrance hall 
and a ‘ genteel ’ sitting-room into a narrow passage, 
leading to a closed door at the end. We passed 
on the way a rather untidy kitchen, with a smell of 
dish-water and unsavory cooking, and I caught a 
glimpse of a towzled maid-of-all-work engaged in 
preparing the mid-day meal. But even this sugges- 
tion of slatternly disorder under the superficial neat- 
ness outside of the flat did not prepare me for the 
sight which met my eyes after the forbidding fe- 
male, having knocked on the door, left me and 
slowly retraced her steps, looking back several times 
to eye me with suspicious curiosity. A thin, clear 
voice, like the wire string of a musical instrument, 
said : ‘ Come in/ and I entered a bare room, so 

dark that I had to blink my eyes and wait a moment 
before I could see distinctly. One reason for this 
obscurity was the fog outside; and the other, that 
the panes of glass were so encrusted with dirt, that 
even a bright sun would have found it hard to enter. 
The whole room reeked of squalor and poverty, 
making the shabby-genteel rooms outside, and even 


THE THOUGHT 


35 


the sloppy kitchen, seem, by comparison, to be fit 
for an Arabian Night’s entertainment. There was 
no fire-place, only a small rusty stove, whose pipe 
went into a hole near the ceiling, and the walls were 
damp and grimy. On my right, I could dimly make 
out a pallet bed, made of two mattresses laid one 
above the other on the floor. At the foot of this 
bed stood a tattered old armchair. It was covered 
with fine Cordova leather, the design and colour 
almost obliterated, — shadowy pomegranates and 
monkeys. I noticed the chair particularly when I 
sat down. On the left-hand side of the room, 
against the wall on the floor, were a basin, a tin 
water-can and a soap-dish, a mug with a broken 
handle, and a few towels; and beyond was the half- 
open door of a dark cupboard. At the head of the 
bed stood a long, low, Spanish embossed-leather 
trunk, on which was a battered tray with a glass jug 
half filled with water, and a tin cup. Beside them 
was an antique brass candlestick (a Gothic lion with 
a twisted tail) a few scattered cigarettes and a 
match-box. 

“ I took all this in at a glance through the gloom, 
as I entered the room and advanced toward the bed, 
which was heaped with magazines and newspapers. 
There were stacks of them upon the foot of the 
bed, and along the wall were smaller bundles, tied 
with string. At first I thought there was nothing 
else at all on the bed; but, as my eyes got used to 


36 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

the darkness, I made out a head on the pillow, and 
outside the coverlet two arms holding a guitar. 
The bed-clothes lay so flat that there seemed to be 
no human form beneath them, neither body nor 
legs. Then the same thin, wiry little voice spoke to 
me again out of the darkness. 

“ ‘ Here I am, Lady Bolton,’ it said, ‘ what there 
is left of me.’ 

“ And then, sure enough, as I began to see more 
distinctly, I beheld the same little face that I had 
known a half century ago: really scarcely changed 
at all, except that the thick curly hair was grey. 
The skin was still clear and the cheeks were pink, 
and the little moustache (now suspiciously blue- 
black) was curled up at the ends and waxed in ex- 
actly the old way. The teeth, too, gleamed white, 
and the shrewd blue eyes were as keen as ever. 
Well, my dear, it gave me a turn ! I felt faint. It 
was far worse than if it had looked like a corpse — 
this life in death! 

“ ‘ Good gracious,’ I cried, when I could speak, 
4 Cosmo, are you a ghost? Your face is unchanged 
— and look at me ! ’ 

“ The scrap of a man laughed a pitiful little laugh. 
‘ If time has been gentle with me, Miss Charlotte,’ 
he said, calling me by the name of fifty years ago, 
4 nothing else has. My legs are dead, paralysed 
these many years. The doctor says it is all a slow 
continuation of the same evil thing that started in- 


THE THOUGHT 


37 


side of me before my birth. He calls it “ necrosis 
of the bones.” That is all I know about this mortal 
enemy — but I shall fight him to the end, even if/ 
he added in a low voice, with a wild gleam in his 
steely eyes, ‘ even if I bring on the end myself to 
help me get ahead of him ! ’ 

“ 4 You wrote to me, Cosmo/ I said, touching his 
hand, for he seemed to have forgotten my presence. 

“ The wild light left his eyes, and he answered in 
his little, thin voice quite gently : 

“ ‘ Yes, Miss Charlotte, I sent for you because 
I have need of you. If you had not come to-day 
I should have been dead to-morrow/ 

“ The poor little man then told me a long story. 
In the first place, he said that he had followed me 
all these fifty years, everywhere, in the newspapers! 
His whole life is bound up in newspapers, my dear. 
He does scarcely anything all day long and into the 
night, and often while he suffers pain, but read them 
or play the guitar. He reads magazines, too, and 
new books when he can afford to buy them, besides 
some old books saved from the wreck of better days. 
These are mostly books of poetry: Greek, Latin, 
Spanish and English. It is the queerest heap of 
printed words in which this atom lives, buried alive. 
He held in his arms, while he spoke, an old guitar 
inlaid with mother-of-pearl; his one companion; the 
only voice that has spoken to him with sympathy, in 
all these last ten years of solitary confinement. 


38 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


“ Cosmo told me, that, after he came back to 
England, he was very prosperous and had become 
quite a rich man when he was sixty years old. 
Then, like many another old fool, he fell in love with 
a worthless woman, and she married him for his 
money. He said she was extremely pretty, had been 
an opera-singer and successful, but after some acute 
throat trouble and an operation she had lost her 
voice. Like the cigale in the fable, she became poor 
and needy. (I think he said that she was an 
Italian.) Well, the upshot was that after she mar- 
ried the poor little man she squandered his money: 
and after that, like Kipling’s vampire, she left him, 
4 stripped to his foolish hide.’ 

“ 4 She said she wondered how she ever could 
have married an old frog like me. I have never 
heard of her since she went away. I think she must 
be dead.’ 

“ Such was the history of Cosmo’s domestic ex- 
perience. 

“ He had a stroke of paralysis soon after his 
wife’s desertion. It came partly from the creeping 
of his insidious disease and partly from nervous 
shock, the doctor said. There were no more minia- 
tures to paint. The helpless man tried colouring 
photographs for a living. He did it skilfully, the 
poor little creature. He showed me one or two 
that lay on the trunk beside him, in oval frames with 
glass over them. They looked exactly like minia- 


THE THOUGHT 


39 


tures. But all the work that he could get to do 
brought in very little money, and the small annuity 
that he had saved from the wreck of his fortune did 
not suffice for the rent of two little rooms and the 
wages of one servant, besides food for two people. 
After three years of hopeless struggle, he made an 
arrangement to be taken as a * paying guest ’ into his 
brother’s household, his only relation in England. 
The two brothers had been separated since child- 
hood, for Cosmo was disapproved of in his very 
pious family, having run away from home at six- 
teen to become an artist. His only sympathetic re- 
lation had been a sister who had married and gone 
to America. It was she who had helped Cosmo 
when he was struggling for a livelihood and living 
in Bohemia, and she who saved up money enough to 
bring him to America, when his time of prosperity 
had begun at twenty-five. 

“ Cosmo now appealed in his helplessness to the 
brother whom he had not seen for years, who was a 
retired Nonconformist minister. He and his wife, 
having just at this time been obliged to take charge 
of two little orphan grandchildren, were in need of 
money. Half Cosmo’s annuity, twenty pounds, was 
a great help to them in exchange for a vacant store- 
room and scanty food, called ‘ lodging, board and 
washing.’ The latter item hardly counted at all, for 
all the bed-ridden artist’s ‘ wearing apparel,’ except 
night shirts, was an old grey velvet smoking jacket. 


40 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


Cosmo kept the other half of his annuity to spend 
(except for an occasional doctor’s visit) upon his 
luxuries — newspapers, magazines, books and ciga- 
rettes. His brother and sister-in-law called this out- 
lay ‘ sinful waste ’ and protested against it.” 

“ But why was he treated like a prisoner in a 
dungeon, Granny? ” interrupted Melanie. 

“ Because, my dear, his reverend brother said that 
he committed a sin in even housing an atheist. To 
mitigate this transgression he and his wife refused to 
hold any social intercourse with Cosmo ; his brother 
only seeing him when their business relations de- 
manded it, and his sister-in-law, or the maid-of-all- 
work, for domestic exigencies. The sister-in-law 
brought his meals to him herself, and the maid of 
all work ‘ did ’ the wretched room, which was so con- 
spicuously 4 undone.’ 

“ ‘ I should like to have seen their little grand- 
children,’ said the poor cripple, pathetically. * I 
have heard of them growing up from babyhood, but 
never once have they been allowed to come within 
sight or sound of me, a pestilent atheist ! ’ 

“ In all these years, as I told you, Cosmo’s guitar 
had been his only companion and consolation. He 
finished his story as follows : 

“ ‘ I have had dreadful fits of pain lately in my 
right arm. Morphia, which I always keep at hand 
in case of necessity, failed to help me. I sent for my 
doctor, and he told me that, to save my life, I must 


THE THOUGHT 


4i 


let him amputate my right arm. He told me this 
two nights ago, gave me a hypodermic and left me 
to think over what he had said. That night, as I 
lay half stupefied by the morphia, I seemed to see 
with open eyes a dim shape sitting where you are 
now. It waved about like a column of grey smoke, 
but remained stationary in the old armchair. It 
gibbered at me from a featureless face, which had 
nothing distinctly human about it, and it said in a 
voice which I dearly understood, although it did not 
speak to my ear (I find it hard to describe just how 
it was) : “ Take your razor and cut your throat, 

while you still have two hands — for it is a tough 
job for one hand alone! Take your razor and cut 
your throat ! ” it repeated over and over again. 

“ * I tried to raise myself in bed. I wrestled and 
struggled against this awful thing that writhed and 
tempted me, and suddenly, as I sank back upon my 
pillow, the hideous, formless shape seemed to 
crumple up and vanish like a wreath of mist: and in 
its place I saw standing by the chair a tall white girl, 
with a large nose and round brown eyes. She had 
roses in her hands, and I could hear her say : “ No 

one but a coward kills himself ! ” 

“ ‘ Do you remember, Miss Charlotte, when I was 
painting you fifty years ago? I told you one day 
that a foreign Minister in Washington, a friend of 
mine, had shot himself, and I had said that he was 
a brave man. The words of your answer came to 


42 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


me (floating across the gulf of fifty years) two 
nights ago. And that explains why I wrote to you.’ 

“ Cosmo looked up at me, clasping the old guitar 
in his arms as fondly as a mother would clasp her 
baby. Oh, it was pitiful, my dear,” broke off Lady 
Bolton, blowing her nose. 

“ Well, well, I’m coming to an end,” she resumed 
presently. “ I talked over with Cosmo what could 
be done. I offered to engage a private room in 
some great hospital where the amputation could be 
performed, and to get a permanent place for him 
afterward in a hospital for cripples. But it appears 
that the poor atom has as great a horror of hospitals 
as the most ignorant people can have — and he said 
he would sooner die than go to either of them. He 
then told me that he had thought out a plan himself, 
in case I should be willing to help him. This was, 
to have a niece come over from America, his sister’s 
child, who had been a Presbyterian missionary in 
New Mexico. ‘ She is accustomed to heathen In- 
dians,’ he added, with a bitter smile, ‘ and she is 
willing to tolerate me.’ He said that this niece had 
already written offering to come and take care of 
him, but his brother and sister-in-law had refused 
to be burdened with another inmate : Sarah Burton, 
the niece, not being able to make it worth their while. 
Cosmo said that it would cost me much less to do 
this (expenses for the journey and all) than to keep 
him at a hospital, and that the twenty pounds a year 


THE THOUGHT 


43 

now paid to the pious brother would help to support 
his niece and himself. 

“ I told Cosmo that I was delighted with his plan, 
and should at once look for a nice, clean flat some- 
where, where he could see sky and trees. He 
seemed wild with delight at the thought, and when I 
left him, he really was in a state of beatitude : he has 
such a joyful nature. He lifted the old guitar and 
played a little gay barcarolle thing, that made me cry. 

“ As I wrote to you in May, the niece arrived, a 
yellow-eyed but worthy young woman with a muddy 
complexion. They moved into the nice tidy lodg- 
ings which I had hired for them, where the poor 
little man’s right arm was taken off successfully 
three months ago, and he lies there now, as merry 
as a cricket, in a bed drawn near to a window, where 
he can see the trees in the park beyond, and where 
wrens and sparrows flock to eat scattered crumbs on 
the window-ledge, unharmed by a lazy tabby-cat 
who was lying in a basket on the floor when I first 
saw her, and who has produced a family since. 

“ There never was a happier household, Cosmo 
declares. His niece, he says, is a splendid cook, and 
a small girl washes the dishes and ‘ cleans up,’ com- 
ing in every afternoon. The niece also knows a good 
deal about nursing the sick. She massages his legs 
and rubs them with spirits, and Cosmo thinks they 
will improve ‘in time 9 (he is nearly seventy-six)! 

“This is the story of Cosmo Blight, my dear; 


44 


SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


and a long story I have made of it,” Lady Bolton 
concluded. 

“ I love your stories, Granny,” said Melanie, 
“ and there is no end to them — they are far more 
varied and amusing than the Arabian Nights.” 

“ Why, my dear, I could beat Dinarzade (or 
whatever her name was), or Scheherazade all to 
pieces. I believe I could have kept that old Sultan 
roaring with laughter for thousands of nights, if I 
had had the chance.” 

“ And if you could have sung to him, * Boo, for 
John,’ Granny, he would have died of laughing at 
the end.” 

“ Fie for shame, my dear. I never sang that 
song for any crowned head in all my wanderings,” 
retorted Lady Bolton, “ and you must keep 4 Boo, 
for John ’ quite between ourselves and Sydney, my 
dear child. Your grandfather always thought it 
and some of my other songs quite undignified for a 
person of ‘ rank and station.’ ” 

“ But papa loves it and you will sing it for Harry 
sometime, won’t you, dear Granny ? ” pleaded 
Melanie, throwing her arms about her grand- 
mother’s neck. 

“ My dear child,” cried Lady Bolton, “ he would 
not have a shred of respect left for me! And 
now,” she concluded, rising from the armchair, 
“ we must dress to go out, or we shan’t get back in 
time for luncheon.” 


CHAPTER VI 


L ADY BOLTON had ordered her carriage at 
eleven o’clock. She detested motor-cars, and 
never could be persuaded to get into one except 
when on her annual visit to Saint-Lambert. Every- 
where in France the routes nationales are as smooth 
as a floor, and even crossing the wonderful gorge of 
the “ Garabite ” and over the rough mountains of 
the Cevennes, our automobile runs so softly that 
my belle-mere forgets to be nervous ; but in London, 
and also in the country in England, Lady Bolton 
invariably drives in a wide landau drawn by two 
tall, Roman-nosed bay horses, with the same placid, 
fat coachman whom time never seems to wither, 
and the same devoted footman, James. 

“ Please, Granny, take me first to see the Padre 
Alvarez,” pleaded Melanie, as they went down- 
stairs to the carriage. 

Lady Bolton wrinkled her large nose, but she 
gave the necessary order to the footman, James, 
before they got in. “ I will do a great deal to please 
you, child,” she said, as they rolled along at a 
respectable trot, “but I never have laid eyes upon 
that Spanish priest since we left Madrid; and he 
recalls to my mind very painful memories.” 

45 


4 6 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


“ All the same, Bonnemaman, he is a saint,” said 
Melanie decidedly. “ I have seen him, you know, 
at Roehampton when I was at school. He came to 
London on a visit five years ago with the Duke and 
Duchess. The Mere Dolores presented me to him 
at the Sacred Heart as my dear mother’s child, and 
much he talked of her and about the Church. 
What he says is beautiful, quiet and peaceful — ” 

“ Yes, I dare say,” said Lady Bolton with some- 
thing like a grunt of dissatisfaction; and then she 
added, more graciously ; “ I am glad that anything 
* quiet and peaceful ’ can impress a little flibberti- 
gibbet like you. I never could ! ” 

“ Why, Granny,” retorted Melanie, rolling up a 
roguish brown eye, “ you have impressed me so in- 
delibly that I don’t believe we could be told apart 
in the dark! Mademoiselle du Parquet says that 
I am the image of you — •” 

“ She did not mean to be complimentary, then ! ” 
observed her grandmother, looking extremely 
pleased. Melanie kicked out her feet, showing two 
small, pointed white shoes (she was nearly always 
dressed in white), leaned back in the cushions of 
the carriage, and shouted aloud. 

“ Hush, child,” exclaimed Lady Bolton, as the 
fat coachman reined in the fat horses before a 
stately house with a wide flight of steps leading up 
to an imposing front door. “ The Duke and the 
Duchess might hear you ! ” 


THE THOUGHT 


47 


" Did not you say the side door? ” Melanie asked. 
“ The Padre said in his note that the entrance to his 
apartment is by the side door; and the Duke and 
Duchess do not receive at all now, he said; as the 
Madre Dolores is still so ill. There is at the side 
door a visitors’ book.” 

“ We’ll get out here, and walk round the corner,” 
said Lady Bolton; which they did, followed by 
James the footman, who had a nose as impressive 
as his mistress’s, and who rang the bell at a door 
more ample than most people’s front doors. An 
English footman opened it, and answered that the 
Padre Alvarez was “ at ’ome.” He ushered them 
upstairs and preceded them along a wide gallery 
which united the front of the house to the back. 
The walls were hung with portraits of the noble 
owners for many, many generations. 

“ The Duke and Duchess did not need to hire the 
ancestors with the house, like Ruddygore,” observed 
Lady Bolton. “ They are themselves as rich in 
illustrious progenitors as the old Virginia gentleman 
who said that * he defied any family to compar’ 
graveyards with the Dades ! ’ ” 

The footman knocked at a door near the end of 
the gallery, and a mild voice said, “ Come in.” 

The Padre Alvarez was “ at ’ome ” in the foot- 
man’s sense of the word, but in no other. The 
room was sumptuously furnished, giving a confused 
impression of tapestry, mirrors, brocade and gild- 


48 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


in g; and beside an open window looking out on 
Green Park, in a splendid Louis XIII armchair, sat 
the Padre, clad in a threadbare old soutane. He 
was reading his office, interrupting himself now and 
then to scatter crumbs from a plate on to the wide 
stone window-sill. These were disputed noisily by 
a few vagrant and disreputable sparrows. The 
priest, like the shabby birds, seemed quite astray and 
incongruous in the midst of worldly splendour in 
London. The Padre’s face was thin and of a yel- 
low, waxen pallor, and the smile which hovered 
always about his thin lips was so sweet and gentle 
(albeit with a little quizzical twist in one corner) 
that the two deep lines in his hollow cheeks gave 
somehow the impression of dimples. His chin and 
jaw were blue, although close-shaven, showing how 
black the beard (if he let it grow) would be; as 
black as the distinct but delicately-pencilled eye- 
brows (Spanish eyebrows) which shadowed his 
deep-brown eyes, and running upward toward the 
nose gave an expression of wistful sadness to his 
face even when he smiled. The Padre’s hair, thick 
and white, was in silvery contrast to the dark pallor 
of his skin. It was cut close, en brosse, and on top 
of the head was a conspicuous tonsure. The neat 
trimming of his hair, and shaving of his face, took 
away any impresson of slovenliness from a figure 
which suggested the most absolute poverty. The 
Padre’s hands, too, gave him what is conventionally 


THE THOUGHT 


49 


called an air of “ distinction ” (although in Spain 
such hands may be seen among the very poor). 
Their beauty is hard to describe. “ Small ” or 
“ graceful ” or “ slender ” might apply also to hands 
whose expression is vain, weak and worldly. The 
Spanish hands that are like the hands of the Padre 
Alvarez seem to me always to express one meaning : 
prayer ! 

The Padre’s hands, holding an old breviary, were 
actively engaged in prayer at this moment, while his 
lips moved silently and his dark eyes wandered 
forth, past the trees in the garden, to the park be- 
yond, where the dingy London sheep were busy 
nibbling the dry grass, on this golden August morn- 
ing. The priest got up smiling from the high- 
backed armchair, and putting his breviary down on 
the table advanced with outstretched hands, saying 
slowly, in English, with a slight foreign accent: 

“ It is a long time, Lady Bolton, since our last 
meeting.” 

“ Indeed it is,” answered Lady Bolton with a 
sigh, as she settled herself in an ample and soft arm- 
chair. And then, as though to banish sad memo- 
ries : “ Are you going to be some time in London ? ” 
she asked briskly. 

“I hope not, if I may say so,” answered the 
Padre Alvarez, smiling. “lama poor man among 
the poorest poor in the Costanilla de Sant Iago at 
Madrid, and I feel at home there, while in this pal- 


50 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

ace I am like an old black jackdaw in the midst of 
peacocks’ feathers, though they are not of my own 
wearing or choice,” and the Padre looked quiz- 
zically at the magnificence of his tapestry and bro- 
cade surroundings. Then he glanced at the shabby 
sparrows on the window-sill. “ My little sisters 
the birds reconcile me somewhat. They, like the 
poor, are the same everywhere.” 

“ What do you do here ? ” asked Lady Bolton 
abruptly, with her matter-of-fact air. 

“ What I do in other places, my Lady,” answered 
the Padre, smiling. “ I say my Mass at six o’clock 
every morning at the church nearby in Farm Street, 
and the Duke and Duchess go there to mass at eight 
o’clock, for this is not a Catholic house and has no 
private chapel. My daily life everywhere is with 
the poor, and I also find them here in London. I 
find monasteries and convents too, my Lady, more 
than non-Catholics dream of, for there is much 
faith in London, and great missionary work. All 
of this is ‘ home 9 to me, who have had no parish 
since twenty-five years, but who work as I may with 
sinners and outcasts to bring them to God, and who 
sometimes preach retreats and teach the ‘doctrina 
Christiana’ in the schools of the Sacred Heart. 
That is what I do, Lady Bolton,” the Padre con- 
cluded, turning to Lady Bolton with a smile. 

" Humph! ” said Lady Bolton, doubtfully, " that 
does not sound like some of the things I have heard 


THE THOUGHT 


5i 

about you of late years. I was told that you were 
tutor to the young King in Spain, and Confessor to 
the Queen Regent. That sounds more like a fre- 
quenter of Royal Palaces, and a prelate of high de- 
gree ! ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said the Padre, quite unmoved, “ I 
went very often to the Palace when I was instruct- 
ing the young King in the ‘ doctrina Christiana 9 
and in religious history, but that is not to become 
proud. Royal personages, too, my Lady, are human 
beings, and the Church is no respecter of persons.” 

Lady Bolton made a face. She did not believe 
a word of it, but she wanted to find out. 

“ How did you teach the Monarch? ” she asked. 
“ Did not he sit up high, and, at your lessons, were 
not gentlemen-in-waiting present, and function- 
aries? ” 

“ Oh, no, dear Lady Bolton. I taught him as I 
would teach any other little boy, and he was just as 
respectful as another child would be. A little anec- 
dote will show you. Once the King had neglected to 
study some lessons as well as I could wish, so I told 
him that I would have to fine him, next time that he 
made a mistake, a half peseta. I went away and 
forgot all about it. The following week the young 
King did not know very well his lesson; and when 
it was over, he got up, very serious, and going to the 
door spoke to some one outside. When he came 
back he put into my hand a half peseta, saying, 


52 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

‘ Here is the fine, Padre.' The King had remem- 
bered, and not possessing the coin, had borrowed it 
to pay me! ” 

Lady Bolton laughed. “ Well, that sounds 
wholesome," she said. “ I only hope he returned 
the borrowed money ! ” 

“ Oh, but, Bonnemaman” broke in Melanie, “ I 
can tell you something funny about the young King 
and the Padre, which the Madre Dolores told me, 
and the Padre, I know, would not tell it to you him- 
self. It seems that the Queen Regent and the 
young King wished very much that the Padre would 
go to one of the royal birthday receptions, and he 
had always refused. At last, on the King's thir- 
teenth birthday, the Padre Alvarez promised he 
would go. 

“At these receptions all the great functionaries 
and Grandees of Spain pass in front of the King and 
salute him. The King, who was born a king and 
was used to all this pageantry, felt quite unmoved 
and a little ennuye at the function on his thirteenth 
birthday, until he espied an old black soutane ad- 
vancing amid the splendid uniforms. Then the 
King pulled his mother’s dress excitedly and called 
her attention to it. It appears that the Padre 
as he approached saw this conspicuous panto- 
mime; and the next day at the lesson, he remon- 
strated with the King: ‘ Your Majesty should not 
have called attention to me, for I am the humblest 


THE THOUGHT 


53 


of your subjects/ ‘ For me, Padre,’ answered the 
young King, ‘ you are the most important of them 
all!”’ 

“ I do like that,” said Lady Bolton, laughing. 
The Padre smiled, and even blushed. Then he said 
sadly : 

“ Yes, he was indeed a good child, the little King. 
But now in these awful years when powers of evil 
are rampant in Spain, and all over Europe, he has a 
hard, hard life before him; full of trials and temp- 
tations. God help him ! ” 

Lady Bolton got up with difficulty from the low 
armchair. “ Well, I am glad that I came,” she said 
most kindly, shaking hands with the Padre, “ and 
I should like to come again.” 

“ I think we shall be here until the first days of 
October, and then go to Paris,” said the Padre Al- 
varez, glancing at Melanie, who blushed red and 
inquired : 

“ Then Harry has asked you? ” 

“ Yes, indeed,” answered the Padre Alvarez, 
“ and your father has been here also. On the 
twentieth of October I am sure that I can be in 
Paris, and meantime, I hope to see you often.” 

As they were moving toward the door, Melanie 
stopped short. “ Oh, Granny dear,” she cried. 
“ The Padre loves the poor. Ask him to visit the 
poor little artist, Mr. Cosmo.” 

“ It would scare that small man to death,” 


54 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

answered Lady Bolton. “ He would take him for 
the devil.” 

“ Who is this ? ” asked the Padre, advancing, 
“ and why should he think so ill of me?” 

“ It is a crippled scrap of a man, an old, old ac- 
quaintance of mine,” replied Lady Bolton. 

“ But why should he feel hostile to me ? ” asked 
the priest. “ He knows me not.” 

“ Because he is a rabid atheist,” rejoined the old 
lady. 

“ Poor man,” said the Padre, gently, “ how I 
should like to know him ! ” 

Lady Bolton stared at him. “ Well, if you feel 
that way,” she exclaimed, “ I don’t see why you 
should not go. I remember that Cosmo used to 
read Spanish poetry long ago. He knew some of 
the Coplas de Manrique by heart.” 

“ Oh, but I must see him,” and the Padre’s face 
lighted up. “ I can read Spanish poetry with him. 
Will you tell him?” 

“ I shall certainly propose it,” assented Lady Bol- 
ton. “ After all, I should really not mind if you 
made a Romanist of him. You see, he believes in 
nothing” And with this magnanimous concession 
she went downstairs to her carriage. 

Melanie hugged her when the door was closed. 

“ So, Granny dear,” she exclaimed, “ even my 
church is better than nothing? From you that is 
something gained — ” 


THE THOUGHT 


55 


“Yes,” growled Lady Bolton as they drove 
toward Regent’s Park, “ I suppose it is ! But,” she 
added suddenly and fiercely, “your church is a 
scornful and a cruel church all the same.” 

“ Oh, Bonnemaman ” protested Melanie, “ how 
can you say so ? ” 

“ Don’t I know it ? ” retorted Lady Bolton. 
“ When you were a wee baby, and your mother dead, 
I was to be your godmother, and I, a Churchwoman, 
was not allowed to hold the candle at your baptism ! 
Don’t imagine I’ve forgotten it ! ” she pursued, with 
her “ grizzly-bear ” expression. “ It was one of the 
bitterest moments of my life not to be thought fit to 
hold that candle by a bigoted and intolerant church, 
and to be a real godmother. There now ! ” and 
Lady Bolton wiped her eyes and blew her nose like 
a trumpet. 

Melanie threw her arms about the neck of her ob- 
durate ancestor. “ Oh, Bonnemaman,” she cried, 
kissing her. “ You have never been willing to un- 
derstand about that. You are my godmother all 
right! You only could not hold the candle, because 
that a Catholic must do ! ” 

“ Humph ! ” growled Lady Bolton, accepting the 
caress but still incorrigible. This was an old and 
bitter grievance to which she had reverted at inter- 
vals for nineteen years. It was a personal insult, 
according to her ideas, which (to all appearances) 
Lady Bolton would neither forgive nor forget. 


CHAPTER VII 


S ARAH BURTON opened the door of the little 
flat, three rooms and a kitchen, which Lady 
Bolton had chosen for Cosmo Blight in a plain but 
highly respectable house (on the third floor back), 
overlooking a large park. 

She wore a checked gingham apron with shoulder- 
straps ; and a faint kitchen smell, attractive and with 
just a suspicion of onion, pervaded her. 

“ Let us know,” said Lady Bolton after she had 
greeted Miss Burton and mentioned Melanie, “ the 
minute his lunch is ready, for I smell that it is go- 
ing to be good, and it must not be spoiled by wait- 
ing.” 

The yellow-eyed Sarah smiled and admitted that, 
“ Uncle does say that my beef hash with onions is 
the best thing he has eaten for years.” 

“ Poor little ‘ manny moo ! 9 ” murmured Lady 
Bolton to Melanie, as they opened the door of the 
bed-room. “ I dare say he has been nearly starved 
for the last ten years.” 

When he saw them come in, Cosmo Blight 
dropped a book from his one hand onto the bed, and 
uttered a cry of delight. The tabby-cat, in the sun- 
56 


THE THOUGHT 57 

shine by the window, stopped washing her face and 
turned to see what had happened. 

“ Dear Lady Bolton,” exclaimed Cosmo, “ you 
never told me that she was so beautiful. You don’t 
mind, do you, my dear young lady? I am such an 
old man, and an artist ! I have not seen a beautiful 
woman ( you don’t mind, do you, Lady Bolton?) for 
more than ten years ! Please sit where the sun can 
touch your hair. You ought to be painted on ivory. 
You have come too late, though, for me to catch your 
youth as it flies, and preserve it like a gay fly in 
amber, as I did with so many others in their golden 
days. My art could catch and keep the sunny 
smiles, bright eyes, and pink cheeks, that now are 
faded and dim, or dead. The hand that worked 
these wonders, that kept alive and immortal this 
beauty so elusive and vanishing, it is dead and gone, 
too,” and Cosmo, pausing for breath, shook his head 
at the empty sleeve folded and pinned to his 
shoulder. 

“ Come, Cosmo ! ” said Lady Bolton, blowing her 
nose like a trumpet, “ I thought to give you enjoy- 
ment, and you are making us all miserable.” 

“ You have ! ” cried the little artist, “ and when 
she goes, I shall still see her. Beauty is like music. 
It stays with one when the eye and the ear are va- 
cant, and one lies alone in the dark.” 

“ Speaking of beauty, I must tell you my last com- 
pliment,” said Lady Bolton, leaning back comfort- 


58 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

ably in the old Spanish armchair (whose ancient 
Cordova leather had been skilfully patched and re- 
nailed). Crossing one knee over the other, in her 
favourite “ old-gentlemanly attitude” (as Melanie 
called it), she recounted the following incident 
which made her hearers shout with laughter. Even 
the tabby-cat and a half-grown sandy kitten with 
an unwieldy tail, that had crawled from under the 
bed to play with its mother, paused to listen before 
tumbling over one another. 

“ When we left Paris last April to come back to 
London,” said Lady Bolton, “ Sydney and I had 
brought some sandwiches to eat on the train, but 
when I heard that there was a wagon-restaurant, I 
said : ‘ My dear Sydney, the Channel is reported in 
the Paris Herald to be like a mill-pond. You eat all 
the sandwiches, and I shall go to the dining-car and 
devour a hearty meal/ He told me to be careful 
if he allowed me to go without a protector. (He 
disapproves of my inveterate habit of making pro- 
miscuous acquaintances.) There was a couloir and 
a vestibule, but I reached the wagon-restaurant in 
safety, where I was plumped down into a chair at a 
table for four, with an empty seat beside me, and two 
gay young Frenchmen opposite. 

“ They stared at me; and then (with that cer- 
tainty which all French travellers possess that no 
English foreigner ever understands their language) 
one of them remarked in a distinctly audible whisper 


THE THOUGHT 


59 


to the other : ' Elle est laide d faire peur! * I threw 
my head back and, opening my mouth wide, I fairly 
howled with laughter. Those two young French- 
men started from their seats and with one accord 
rushed madly from the table to the other end of the 
dining-car, where they dropped exhausted into 
chairs at separate tables. The one that faced me 
kept looking at me furtively during the entire meal, 
round the brim of the lady’s hat who sat opposite to 
him, and dodging back when he saw my eagle eye 
fixed upon him.” 

“ He must have felt like Red Ridinghood ! ” com- 
mented Melanie. Getting up from her chair, she 
threw herself down upon the floor beside the cats in 
the sunshine. “ Oh, what a nice cat, and what a 
funny kitten ! ” she cried, stroking the tabby-cat 
which rolled over on its back and purred, while the 
kitten standing on its hind legs, stretched out eager 
claws after the pink rose in her white hat. 

“ They are wonderfully cheerful things for a sol- 
itary man,” said Cosmo, gazing in artistic ecstasy at 
the picture. 

“ Oh, yes,” assented Melanie. “ That is why 
monks like them,” and, rising lightly from the floor 
she took a chair by Cosmo’s bedside. 

“ Monks ! ” repeated the cripple with a look of 
strong distaste. “ Monks like cats ? But cats are 
very clean creatures ; I should not think they would 
like monks ! ” 


6o SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


“ But, Monsieur Cosmo ! ” protested Melanie, who 
had forgotten his last name, “ you cannot know any- 
thing at all about monks. Here is a book that I am 
taking to be bound,” and Melanie held up a frayed 
paper-covered volume. “ I have read it almost to 
pieces, and I love it! It tells so much about Saint 
Francis of Assisi, and of many others who loved to 
live alone.” 

“ Loved to live alone ! ” repeated Cosmo, staring 
at her from his pillow. 

“ I mean alone with God,” said Melanie. 

“Oh!” rejoined Cosmo vaguely. 

Melanie looked at him intently with her round 
bird’s eyes and opened the book. 

“ I will read something,” she said in the tone of 
an indulgent teacher to a small pupil, “ which will 
explain to you what I mean.” 

Cosmo’s small face glowed with admiration as he 
looked at the girl holding the book. He could not 
see her dancing young eyes ; only the delicate profile 
of a pensive Fra Angelico angel. Something in her 
expression seemed to awe him, like a new revelation. 

“You like French?” Melanie asked, before be- 
ginning. 

“ Oh, very much,” answered Cosmo. 

“ Listen, then,” said the girl. “ This book is writ- 
ten by a Danish gentleman, named Joergensen, who, 
by visiting Assisi and loving the beautiful places of 
Saint Francis, came also to have faith. After this 


THE THOUGHT 


6 1 


time he is one day at Grecio, in the old monastery, 
and he goes to pray in the chapel — ” and Melanie 
read from the book a page, telling how the traveller 
found an old monk lying at full length in the chapel 
face downward, praying, his outstretched hands 
touching the stone pavement ; while quietly between 
his arms sat a little happy cat, purring. 

“ That is beautiful/' said the cripple, softly, when 
she had finished. Lady Bolton rubbed her nose 
a little doubtfully. 

“ I should like to hear more about those monks. 
It is all new to me,” pursued Cosmo. “ Will you 
come again and read to me ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed,” answered Melanie promptly, 
“ and the Padre Alvarez ; he will come too ! ” she 
added. 

“ What? ” exclaimed Cosmo, quite aghast. “ A 
Padre! ” 

“ My granddaughter is a Jesuit in petticoats, my 
dear Cosmo,” exclaimed Lady Bolton. “ Beware of 
her. She will have you in Peter’s net before she is 
done with you ! ” 

“ Oh, Granny,” cried Melanie, “ it is not to laugh ! 
If you laugh I shall come no more.” 

“ Please, please,” cried the little artist, holding out 
his hand. “ You may bring the Old Scratch him- 
self, if you will only come ! ” 

“ All right,” said Melanie, quickly recovering her 
spirits. “ We’ll come!” 


62 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


At this moment the rattle of an approaching tray, 
laden with luncheon, could be heard outside, and as 
the door opened to admit Sarah Burton, Lady Bol- 
ton and Melanie took their leave. 

On the way home, Melanie said, “ I like him, Bon- 
nemaman , poor little man — but how queer it seems. 
To know so much, to have lived so long, to have suf- 
fered so terribly, and all without the Bon Dieu! 
Why, the tabby-cat and the sandy kitten know bet- 
ter !” 

“ That is all true,” admitted Lady Bolton. 


CHAPTER VIII 


A FEW days later, the Padre Alvarez found 
himself seated by the little atheist’s bedside, 
in the old Spanish leather armchair. Cosmo had at 
first eyed him suspiciously, but his keen glance grew 
softer as it dwelt on the priest’s gentle face with the 
calm dark eyes, black eyebrows, and close-cropped 
silver hair. All these outward signs appealed 
strongly to Cosmo’s artistic eye. How beautiful 
that head would be, he thought, to paint against a 
dull gold background. 

Cosmo talked at first about Spain and Spanish 
poetry ; but he never had met a priest before in his 
whole life, and he could not long resist trying to get 
“ a rise ” from this ecclesiastic, by shocking him as 
he used to shock his pious brother. 

“ I hope you won’t mind my telling you that I am 
an out-and-out infidel,” he said cheerfully as soon as 
he got a chance. 

“ On the contrary, I am very glad indeed to have 
you tell me so,” was the Padre’s surprising answer. 

“ But does not it shock you ? Does not it make 
you want to shun me as you would a leper? ” per- 
sisted Cosmo. 


63 


64 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


“ But I should not shun a leper,” answered the 
Padre. 

Cosmo stared at him a moment and then said, “To 
my brother and his wife, very pious Calvinists, with 
whom I lived for ten years, I was as a plague and a 
pestilence. Why are you different, you who belong 
to an even narrower and more bigoted church than 
theirs ? ” 

“ My Master,” said the priest, not answering the 
question, “prayed to His Father to forgive even 
those who nailed Him to the Cross : ‘ for they know 
not what they do.' ” 

“ You think it is ignorance then? ” asked Cosmo, 
not quite pleased with the inference. 

“ I don’t think ; I know,” answered the Padre Al- 
varez, smiling. 

“ Oh, come, now, how can you be so cock-sure of 
everything?” challenged Cosmo, defiantly. 

“ It is not I, it is God who is what you call ‘ cock- 
sure,’ ” answered the priest. “ It is God who tells 
me what to believe ! ” 

“ How can you prove that assertion, and what 
possible excuse have you Catholics for making out 
your Pope to be a supernatural being?” asked the 
cripple, grasping at some remembered arguments 
against Catholicism. 

“ But we don't/* answered the Padre with the 
half-irritated patience that a nurse feels towards a 
fractious child who won’t listen. “ Like all Protest- 


THE THOUGHT 


65 


ants, you are telling me what my Church is, and what 
we Catholics believe! Now I, who am a Catholic 
priest, am willing to answer any questions you may 
wish to ask ; only you must listen to what I say.” 

Cosmo bit his lips with his little sharp white teeth, 
and a defiant gleam shone in his steel-blue eyes. 

“ Don’t let’s dispute about theology,” he said. “ I 
am not up to that. I would like, however, to ask a 
few common-sense questions. Why don’t people 
who believe all that you Catholics claim to be true 
behave themselves better? Why aren’t they good 
children, instead of doing everything they are told 
not to do ? ” 

To Cosmo’s surprise the Padre burst into a laugh 
that sent the blood into his pale cheeks. 

“ Dear Senor Cosmo,” he cried, “ it is because 
their Heavenly Father does not even expect it of 
them. He knows that His children are but human 
creatures. Dios mio ! How I wish that the modern 
world could understand this, and would simply kneel 
down and say, ‘ Lord have mercy upon a sinner,’ 
rather than flaunt a cold-blooded, complacent and 
self-praising humanitarianism which aims blindly at 
an impossible physical and moral perfection in hu- 
man flesh, and thus strives only to create an earthly 
paradise where there shall be neither temple, nor 
altar, nor God ! ” 

Cosmo retorted in his thin, wiry and altogether 
reasonable voice : “ Humanitarianism, as I under- 


66 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


stand it, means a great enterprise to make man more 
perfect; to raise him in body and mind, until, as 
Clemenceau puts it in this remarkable book which 
I have been reading, ‘ Le Grand Pan/ ‘ the Titan- 
esque atom man shall become the true God ! 5 ” 

Cosmo seemed to think he had the best of the ar- 
gument and was growing tired of it also, for his 
little body could not bear any mental excitement. 
He closed his eyes as though to put an end to the 
conversation. The Padre noticed this, and he spoke 
very gently. 

“ The Lucifer Clemenceau/’ he said, “ defies God, 
and wants man to get on toward perfection all alone, 
by his own unaided efforts, until he shall at last wor- 
ship himself as the true God : the basest of all idols. 
It would be better for man to worship a snake or a 
crocodile or a cow — anything , so that it be some- 
thing outside of himself.” 

Cosmo smiled at this, but without opening his 
eyes, and the Padre continued, more and more 
gently, and in a lower voice. 

“ It is not hard to see God, and to worship Him. 
We have only to will it. We have before our eyes 
the sky and the stars and the sea and the mountains. 
They can put faith in God’s existence into our 
hearts; and God’s love is shown to every flying, 
walking, creeping or swimming thing upon the whole 
earth.” 

Cosmo’s smile faded slowly from his face, and 


THE THOUGHT 


67 

gave place to a wonderful look of peace and quiet. 
He appeared to be falling asleep, and the Padre 
Alvarez half chanted and half whispered in Latin 
the one hundred and forty-eighth Psalm, “ Laudate 
Dominum in Coelis.” Cosmo loved Latin. He 
had a little battered Elzivir Horace which he often 
read and liked to quote. Half awake, he listened to 
the words that fell softly on his ear, which in 
English are : “ Praise the Lord, ye dragons and ye 

deeps, fire and hail, snow and ice, and stormy winds 
which fulfil His word ; mountains, and all hills, fruit- 
ful trees and all cedars; beasts and all cattle; creep- 
ing things and feathered fowls; kings of the earth, 
and all peoples, princes and all judges of the earth; 
young men and maidens ; old men and children ; let 
them praise the name of the Lord, for His name 
alone is exalted.” 

At these last words Cosmo fell fast asleep. His 
one arm was stretched across the coverlet, and the 
thin, pale hand slowly relinquished its hold upon the 
book which lay beside him, “ Le Grand Pan.” Si- 
lently the priest arose and glided from the room. 
Sarah Burton, looking through the open kitchen 
door, cast a hostile glance at his back as he let him- 
self out. She had not liked the Padre’s coming. 

“ Priests make me think of black snakes,” she 
said. 


CHAPTER IX 


T HE following Friday was Cosmo Blight’s sev- 
enty-sixth birthday. Lady Bolton sent some 
red roses and a big sponge-cake and a pint of 
Cliquot Brut for the festival. Sarah had roasted a 
bird to perfection, and served it on toast, brown and 
juicy. This and a salad composed what Cosmo 
called a perfect feast for a Sybarite. His usual 
food was cocoa, rice and prunes, with meat three 
times a week, and sometimes a green vegetable or 
fresh fruit. 

“ This celebration is an orgy ! ” the cripple ex- 
claimed, holding in his hand the glass of champagne 
so that it caught a stray sunbeam, which played 
among the little bubbles, making them dance and 
shine as they kissed the edge of the wine-glass. The 
latter was Bohemian and opalescent, a birthday gift 
from Melanie. 

“ The wine looks alive, as an aqua vitae ought to 
look,” Cosmo cried. “ I could not do this often, my 
dear,” he informed Sarah, after draining the glass, 
“ but the fact is that it is more than ten years since 
I last tasted champagne. To-day I am in Elysium. 
The good fairy and the young goddess are coming to 
68 


THE THOUGHT 69 

see me. Only think of my being up to receive 
them! ” 

Cosmo, indeed, had been fitted with an iron frame 
that gave him enough support to enable him to sit on 
two pillows propped in a chair, for two or three 
hours at a time, on his good days, when he had no 
pain, and to-day he was enthroned in the big Cor- 
dova leather armchair, with a small table drawn 
close in front of him, facing the window where the 
sky was blue and the sun streamed in. When he 
had drained a second glass of champagne, a blush, 
like a girl’s, had crept into his cheeks, and Cosmo 
burst forth in Greek : 

“ 1 <f)i\u vecpovra repirvov.' 

“ That is a song of Anacreon, Sarah. But, as 
you don’t understand Greek, let me give you Tom 
Moore’s translation, set to a gay little tune of my 
own. I used to sing it with a guitar accompani- 
ment.” And Cosmo in his high thin voice sang as 
follows : 

“ How I love the festive boy, 

Tripping through the. dance of joy! 

How I love the mellow sage, 

Smiling through the veil of age! 

And whene’er this man of years 
In the dance of joy appears, 

Snows may o’er his head be flung, 

But his heart — his heart is young. 

“ My legs can’t dance, my dear, for they are dead ; 
but my heart is alive and is dancing ! ” 


70 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


The yellow-eyed Sarah looked almost shocked at 
this Bacchanalian hilarity, but Cosmo’s spirits rose 
still higher after he had eaten a large slice of sponge 
cake. 

“ In ten years from now,” he announced, “ I be- 
lieve I shall be up and about. Since you have mas- 
saged my legs, my dear Sarah, I have felt a tingling 
sensation in them sometimes, as if they were really 
not dead. Perhaps life is coming back to them.” 

Cosmo gazed with pride upon his two little feet 
which emerged from a shawl that was swathed about 
his shrunken legs. They were encased in crimson 
silk socks and patent-leather pumps which he had in- 
sisted that Sarah should buy for him. 

“ Why should I not wear them when I am up, in- 
stead of those horrid old knitted slippers? ” he asked. 
“ I don’t really expect to dance, you know, my dear, 
but I do like to look at them.” 

After a little while Cosmo began to feel tired. 
“ I do hope they will come soon,” he said, “ before 
the bead is off my spirits.” 

At this very moment the bell rang, and Lady Bol- 
ton, puffing audibly from walking up two flights 
of stairs, entered the room, followed by Melanie. 

“ You never went over the Gemmi, Cosmo, did 
you?” she asked after the compliments of the oc- 
casion had been exchanged, and she had got her 
breath. 


THE THOUGHT 


7i 


“ Never, ,, he answered. 

“ I did,” said Lady Bolton, “ ten years ago. I 
don’t know what made me do it, except sheer en- 
nui. Sir Frederick had been obliged to go to Paris 
for a week and left me in Switzerland, where I was 
dreadfully bored at Martigny, so I packed off my 
maid to Thun by rail with the luggage, and taking 
only a small hand-bag, I drove off to that appetizing 
* Kurort,’ Leukerbad — where scorbutic patients 
wallow in tanks by the hour, playing chess and 
checkers ! The next day saw me toiling on foot up 
the Gemmi, accompanied by a bearded guide. I had 
been warned that I was going to do it in the wrong 
direction ; as it were taking the Gemmi by the tail ! 
But I did not care. The bearded guide looked 
askance at me once or twice as I puffed and blew, 
toiling up those almost perpendicular, never-ending 
zig-zags cut in the solid rock. He carried my bag 
and the lunch. 

“ I talked in snatches when I was not too out of 
breath, about the beauties of Switzerland, and tried 
to look quite unconcerned, as though mountain- 
climbing were my daily habit. The guide answered 
scarcely a word, but occasionally I noticed his horny 
face twist into a sardonic grin. I scrambled on up 
those perpetual stony zig-zags, thinking each time, 
‘ Is this the last ? ’ My heart pumped and throbbed 
like a steam-engine, and the perspiration began to 


72 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

stream down my face. At last I really could stand 
it no longer; but, suddenly, plumped down upon a 
large stone, and wept. 

“ The guide planted himself in front of me, lean- 
ing on his alpenstock, and addressed me solemnly: 
* Madame, qui vons a conseille de faire ce voyage-d 
votre age f ’ he asked. This was his first whole sen- 
tence, spoken in a guttural Swiss French. I got up 
from my stone without a word, and marched reso- 
lutely on; reaching the top half-an-hour later. I 
don’t think I ever could have done it, if it had not 
been for the mocking expression on that bearded 
guide’s face. But it was a climb ! Ugh ! it puts me 
out of breath now, even to think of it.” 

“ Granny is very reckless,” said Melanie. “ She 
likes to scramble on our rough mountains when she 
comes to Saint-Lambert.” 

“ There is nothing she can’t do ! ” exclaimed 
Cosmo. 

“What French book is this you’ve got?” asked 
Lady Bolton, an hour later, when she got up to go, 
and pounced upon ‘ Le Grand Pan ’ lying on a heap 
of newspapers at the foot of the bed. 

“ It is a very clever book by Clemenceau,” an- 
swered Cosmo. 

“ Give it to me ! ” she said grimly. “ It is not 
good for you to read such atheist wickedness, and I 
would like to see what he has to say. It can’t hurt 


THE THOUGHT 


73 


me, and there is a craze just now in London about 
Eugenics and free-thought and the Lord knows what 
nonsense. Old Professor Wilson of Harvard has 
come over to help stir things up. I understand that 
Sir Christopher Leighton has got this lunatic bum- 
ble-bee buzzing in his bonnet. He came up to town 
a few days ago to hear Professor Wilson lecture. 
I will take your Grand Pan with me to read on the 
train to-morrow, when we all go down to Leighton 
Towers for that tiresome visit. If I think you had 
better not have the book back again, Cosmo; after 
reading it, I’ll burn it.” 

“ All right,” said Cosmo. “ As your Padre Al- 
varez might say : 4 Esta el libro de V ’ — the book 

is yours.” 

“ You like my Padre, don’t you? ” asked Melanie. 

“ Indeed I do,” said Cosmo. “ He put me to 
sleep ! ” 

They went away, Lady Bolton carrying “ Le 
Grand Pan ” almost at arm’s length. 


CHAPTER X 


T HE next afternoon Lady Bolton, the Marquis, 
Melanie and Sydney arrived at the nearest 
station to Leighton Towers, accompanied by a valet 
and a maid, laden with much hand-baggage, includ- 
ing two baskets, one of which emitted an occasional 
“ miaow,” and the other now and then a monosyl- 
labic “ bow ! ” The whole party was conveyed in 
two large motor-cars from the railway-station to 
Leighton Towers. Harry had come to meet them 
and the drive of five miles seemed very short to 
him and Melanie. Sir Christopher was standing in 
the wide portico ready to receive the party and look- 
ing most hospitable; behind him in the doorway 
stood Lady Louisa and Constance. 

“ Will you have tea with us in the gallery or in 
your own room, dear Lady Bolton?” asked her 
host, as he led her on his arm into the house. 

“ I would rather have tea downstairs now, and 
then take a nap until the dressing-bell rings,” an- 
swered Lady Bolton emphatically. 

“ May I break it to you quite gently,” murmured 
Sir Christopher, when they were all drinking tea, 
“ that my friend, Professor Wilson of Harvard, 
comes to us for the night — he could give us no 
74 


THE THOUGHT 


75 


other time — and may I pray your kind indulgence, 
if we talk of matters this evening about which you 
probably disagree with us ? ” 

Lady Bolton, who had been reading “ Le Grand 
Pan ” furiously during the railway journey, an- 
swered defiantly : “ Have not I met the man more 
than once in Boston, years ago ? ” 

“ In that case, dear Lady Bolton,” said Sir Chris- 
topher with hard eyes and a very soft smile, “ I 
may count upon your kind endurance of the Pro- 
fessor at dinner this evening.” 

“ I held my tongue then and I shall hold it to- 
night,” responded Lady Bolton. “ Only, if I didn’t 
say what I think behind the creature’s back, I should 
explode before his face. You can’t confront such 
a man and floor him with Holy Writ, for he denies 
all Divine authority. One can’t take hold of him; 
he slips like an eel between one’s fingers. He and 
the French infidels from whom he has got most of 
his ‘ new religion ’ look down from a height at God, 
like successful Lucifers. However, I will now go 
and sleep it all off, and I shall be as gentle as a lamb 
when the dinner-gong sounds.” 

Sir Christopher patted her arm as he opened the 
door at the end of the gallery for her to pass out. 
“ Dear Lady Bolton ! ” he repeated softly, and he 
looked like a large tiger-cat, purring. As the door 
closed behind her, Lady Bolton turned and said 
“ Miaow ! ” at the wooden panels. 


76 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

Having done this justice to her feelings, she went 
upstairs and hugged Ophelia, who was dozing com- 
fortably in an armchair before a blazing wood-fire; 
for a chilly wind from the sea splashed drops of 
rain against the window-panes and howled in the 
chimney. 

“ You are not that sort of a cat, my dear,” said 
her mistress. " You have perfectly frank manners. 
Sir Christopher can’t bear me, I know, but he always 
purrs over me, and I only see his claws in his eyes ! ” 
and with that she rang for her maid to take off all 
hampering garments; and arrayed in an ample but 
short flannel gown, which she called her “ Josey,” 
Lady Bolton lay down comfortably prepared for a 
two hours’ nap. Ophelia jumped upon the couch 
beside her mistress, curling herself into an enormous 
white ball. She was a huge Angora cat, with tur- 
quoise-blue eyes and an immense plume of a tail. 
Two kittens had been presented to Lady Bolton six 
years before this time in Vienna and she had im- 
mediately named the white kitten “ Ophelia,” and 
the other one (which was of a dark smoky grey) 
“ Hamlet.” The following year Hamlet surprised 
everybody by producing a family of kittens, but 
Lady Bolton refused to exchange their names, the 
only difference being that, after this occurrence, she 
called Ophelia “ he ” and Hamlet “ she.” 

“ The kind of cat Sir Christopher is,” the old lady 
murmured to herself as she went off to sleep, “ purrs 


THE THOUGHT 


77 


if he is always rubbed the right way, and is amiable 
and attractive if he has everything just as he wants 
it ; but if you cross him, he may not show his anger 
right away, but he’ll remember and store it up ; and 
when you least expect it he will turn and rend you 
with his sharp claws.” 

The dressing-bell awoke Lady Bolton just as a 
motor-car could be heard snorting and panting along 
the uphill drive that led through the park. When 
she got up and looked out of the window, she saw in 
the dim twilight a trim figure in a long overcoat 
just alighting from inside, and a footman taking a* 
stiff black bag from the front of the car. Lady 
Bolton picked up “ Le Grand Pan ” and shook it at 
the unconscious Professor. She then carried the 
book to the fireplace and flung it upon the smoulder- 
ing logs. She had much difficulty in concealing this 
half-burnt sacrifice from Timmins, the maid, who 
came in at the moment. 

“ I am trying to make the fire burn,” Lady Bolton 
explained. 

When the dinner-gong sounded, she swept down- 
stairs, looking a good deal like a thunder-cloud 
dressed in black velvet. But she kept the storm 
within her well under control, and only smiled rather 
ferociously at Professor Wilson when she shook 
hands with him. 

The dinner passed off really very well. Nothing 
was said during the meal about the “ Religion of the 


78 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

Future,” and Sir Christopher entertained his guest 
by telling him a great many things about the history 
of the old place and of the neighbouring country. 
The Professor knew by heart all the important facts 
and dates concerning the history of England, indeed 
he was a perfect encyclopedia of knowledge and in- 
formation. Nobody else talked except Harry and 
Melanie, who spoke almost in whispers to one an- 
other, and seemed oblivious of everybody else. The 
dinner was served swiftly, as Sir Christopher always 
liked to have it, and the ladies left the table within 
an hour after they had sat down. Sir Christopher, 
the Professor, the Marquis and Sydney remained be- 
hind in the dining-room. Everybody except the 
Professor drank wine and smoked. He did neither. 

Harry followed the ladies almost immediately 
into the drawing-room. 

“ ‘ My little sister the dog ’ is here,” said Melanie. 
“You were fond of her at Royat; should you not 
like to see her ? ” 

Without waiting for an answer she ran out of the 
room and returned in a few minutes with a small 
fluffy dog whose “ features ” were three moist, dark 
spots. When Melanie deposited the fleecy ball on 
the floor it elongated and shook itself, disclosing a 
head like a white chrysanthemum and an upside- 
down tassel of a tail which it wagged. 

“ Voila my little sister! ” cried Melanie, “ and she 
shall dance for you ! ” 


THE THOUGHT 


79 


Holding a tiny lump of sugar just out of reach, 
Melanie waved it slowly, singing a little song, in 
German, the burden of which was “ Tanzi, tanzi, 
tanzi;” for the small dog, being Viennese, a gift 
of Lady Bolton, understood not French. Her name 
was “ Netti ” but she was usually called “ Missy.” 
She danced with a bewildering self-taught hop and 
whirl, throwing herself about with a Bacchante-like 
abandon which threatened to and sometimes did, up- 
set her. When her energy and patience began to 
flag, Melanie called out : “ Zwei Handchen ! ” and 

two slender, neatly-trimmed paws, like a lady’s 
hands in long white gloves, shot upwards as though 
clasped in prayer. Then the lump of sugar was 
dropped into her eager mouth and “ Missy ” once 
more became transformed into a mere four-legged 
animal, running away into seclusion to enjoy the 
sugar. 

“ Is not she beautiful? ” cried Melanie. 

“ Yes,” answered Harry, “ very beautiful,” but 
his eyes were fixed on the girl, not on the little 
crunching dog in the corner. Melanie laughed and 
blushed, and exclaimed, “ I meant Missy ! ” 

Then she called across the room to Lady Louisa. 
“ I hope you like * my little sister the dog,’ Lady 
Louisa ? ” 

“ My dear, what are you saying?” asked that 
gentle spinster aunt. “ How can you speak of a 
dog as your sister f It is really shocking.” 


8o SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


“ I got it from Saint Francis of Assisi,” answered 
Melanie with a smile that made the dimple in her left 
cheek dance. “ You know he always said, ‘ my sis- 
ter the lark.’ Why not ‘ my sister the dog 5 ? Or 
(if it happens to be an old one) ‘ my mother the 
dog 5 ?” 

“ Oh, come, 55 cried poor Lady Louisa, appealing 
to Lady Bolton, “ this is really too shocking! 55 

Lady Louisa had been brought up always to call a 
leg a “ limb,” and a dog invariably “ he. 55 

“ Bonnemaman! ” cried the irrepressible Me- 
lanie, “ please tell us the story of 4 A Waltz’s 
dog 5 !” 

“ I do not know, my dear, that it would amuse 
Lady Louisa,” said Lady Bolton, with a twinkle of 
mischief in her eye. 

“ Oh, yes, Bonnemaman , I am sure it would,” re- 
joined Melanie with an answering gleam in her own 
eyes, very like her grandmother’s. 

“ Pray tell it,” urged Lady Louisa, polite but a 
little apprehensive. 

“ It is not a long story,” began Lady Bolton, “ and 
it happened in Pennsylvania more than fifty years 
ago. My father and I went to a little country- 
house near Philadelphia which we hired for the sum- 
mer, because he had been ill and had to be kept very 
quiet, and the doctor could come to see him from 
town nearly every day. We knew nobody and saw 
nobody. My only amusement was to work in the 


THE THOUGHT 


81 


garden and my only entertainment was to listen to 
the complaints of the cook who ‘ went with the 
house ’ ; a sturdy person of Pennsylvania Dutch par- 
entage, and of a pessimistic temperament. 

“ Her especial grievance was the next-door neigh- 
bour. It was a feud of long duration. He was an 
unmarried man who owned a nursery-garden and a 
greenhouse. Over the front gate was a large sign, 
‘ A. Waltz, Florist/ and he lived in a small house 
near the gate. We never knew what A. stood for. 
The cook always spoke of him as ‘ that there A. 
Waltz/ and of his assistant as ‘ that there A. Waltz’s 
man/ 

“ One day she popped in upon me with : ‘ Miss 
Charlotte, that there A. Waltz’s man, everything he 
don’t want he throws it over the wall into our gar- 
den! He’s always doin’ mean tricks.’ Another 
day : ‘ Miss Charlotte, that there A. Waltz has got a : 
dog!’ Two days later: ‘Miss Charlotte, that 
there A. Waltz’s dog he has been coming to my slop- 
bucket.’ I remonstrated. ‘ The poor dog may be 
hungry. Don’t drive him away ! ’ This kindness 
of heart of mine helped to bring about the climax. 
A week later Hybertie (the cook’s name was Hy- 
bertie Jans) burst into my room like a bomb-shell, 
gasping, “ Oh, Miss Charlotte ! that there A. Waltz’s 
dog, he has got a litter of puppies under our back 
porch. He don't care what he does!' That is all 
the story ! ” concluded Lady Bolton, sitting bolt up- 


8 2 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


right and staring hard at Lady Louisa. “ What do 
you think of it? ” 

Lady Louisa looked bewildered. “ If I may say 
so,” she said faintly, “ I do not think it is a very 
nice story.” 

Lady Bolton, I regret to say, laughed heartily. 
“ My dear Lady Louisa,” she exclaimed, “ if you 
had lived outside of a small corner of the world, you 
would not be so abnormally sensitive. One has to 
learn to distinguish between the wholesome and the 
unclean.” 

While she was speaking the gentlemen came in 
from the dining-room. 

“ You are very right, Lady Bolton,” said the Pro- 
fessor blandly, overhearing her last words. “ The 
distinction between the wholesome and the unclean 
is perhaps the most important task of our great For- 
ward Movement. We have so much to destroy of 
old decay and rubbish, accumulated during centuries 
of superstition: a corruption which people have even 
in past times been called upon to preserve and to 
venerate, as sacred or as moral.” 

“ But,” asked the Marquis, “ what objects of wor- 
ship or veneration are you going to set up in place 
of what you consider worm-eaten idols ? ” 

“ Man himself; Humanity!” answered the Pro- 
fessor, with a wave of his bony hand. “ What we 
have chosen to call the * divine ’ is not outside, but 
within us ! ” and the Professor tapped his stiff- 


THE THOUGHT 


83 


starched shirt-front. “ We have only to foster and 
develop the highest possibilities of man, both physi- 
cal and mental, to produce gods ! ” 

“ 4 The Titanic atom, man/ ” growled Lady Bol- 
ton, with what Melanie called her “ grizzly bear ex- 
pression/' 

“ Ah,” cried the Professor, delighted, “ I see that 
you have been reading Clemenceau’s 4 Le Grand 
Pan,' with his ' divine escalade des cieux ’! What 
a great book that is! It ought to be widely read. 
These splendid modern Frenchmen; Clemenceau, 
Viviani, and many others, are helping us to enlighten 
the whole human race. This twentieth century 
shall see the apotheosis of Reason; Man made per- 
fect ! ” The Professor became quite fervent. His 
genial smooth-shaven face, with its little tabs of 
grey whiskers, shone benignly, and his gold-rimmed 
eye-glasses gleamed in unison. He had a mouth 
with loose lips that talked fluently, and his voice was 
pleasantly modulated. He had not the faintest 
American twang, and his age might be seventy-two 
or three. 

When the Professor paused, Lady Bolton drew a 
long breath and seemed to swell up in her armchair, 
preparing to burst forth ; but her son-in-law, stand- 
ing behind her, touched her lightly on the shoul- 
der : 

“ Let me tackle him,” he whispered. 

" Give it to him,” she retorted, also in a whisper 


84 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

over her right shoulder, and subsided again into the 
vast fauteuil. 

“ He only needs to be given rope enough,” whis- 
pered the Marquis, “ and he will hang himself com- 
fortably.” Then he asked aloud, “ How do you de- 
fine Reason ? ” 

The Professor, delighted at the chance, responded, 
“ Reason defines herself. She says to every soul, 
‘ I am your supreme authority.’ ” 

“ That is what God says ! ” broke in the irrepres- 
sible Lady Bolton, bobbing up suddenly. 

“ From the point of view of the old religions, 
yes,” admitted the Professor, “ but we have proved 
that all these varieties of religious assertion are only 
the expression of man himself at different stages of 
his development. A bloodthirsty age created a 
cruel, despotic god; a Jehovah. A humane age will 
always create a humane god. The idea of God is a 
picture painted by man.” 

A suppressed snort from Lady Bolton was quickly 
covered up by the voice of her son-in-law. 

“ Where, then, is God ? ” he asked. 

“ Within us, as I said before,” declared the Pro- 
fessor once more, tapping his starched shirt-front 
which gave back a sound like sheet-iron. “With 
the help of Reason, man has before him infinite 
possibilities. In the new world much has already 
been done. Hygiene — ” the Professor uttered this 
word with a sort of reverent emphasis, pausing a 


THE THOUGHT 


85 


moment after it, “ Hygiene is uplifting the poor. 
It gives them healthy houses, healthy food, and 
healthy children.” 

“ But is that enough ? ” asked the Marquis. 
“ Even the animals in a stock farm, under exactly 
the conditions you mention (in regard to housing, 
food, and offspring) must have training and re- 
straint. What becomes of your human race after 
it is healthy ? ” 

“ There you strike upon a new note, and we have 
responded — we have established the * Society of 
Sex Hygiene ’ — the morality of health,” answered 
the Professor triumphantly. “ It is the highest 
morality that has ever been preached or practised. 
Religion and medicine have failed utterly in the past 
to inculcate morality.” 

“ Granting to a certain extent the failure,” said 
the Marquis, “ granting that the world is full of 
sinners, who is going to teach your new and uplift- 
ing doctrines ? ” 

“ Don’t call them doctrines ” cried the Professor 
hastily. “ Doctrine and dogma are words to be cast 
aside. If I may say it without too much personal 
pride, we consider the school-teacher to be the one 
human being qualified to have full authority and 
absolute freedom upon this vital question in the edu- 
cation of the young.” 

The Professor paused a moment and then con- 
tinued, as though delivering a lecture. “ The par- 


86 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


ents we believe to be the most unfit persons to have 
control of the education of their children. A physi- 
cal partiality distorts the judgment of parents! 
We shall allow them to have very little to do with 
the upbringing of their offspring.” 

“ You would rob parents — ” began the Marquis, 
getting excited. 

“ Not at all, my dear sir,” answered the Profes- 
sor. “ I may say that all the parents who belong to 
us are absolutely at one with us on this point, and 
gladly confide their children’s moral enlightenment 
to the school-teacher, unequivocally and absolutely. 
I fancy, Monsieur le Marquis, that you belong to 
the Roman Church, as you do to the ‘ ancien 
regime/ by inheritance. But you must all come to 
us, in time.” And the Professor smiled genially 
and shook his head playfully at the Marquis, as he 
continued : 

“ It is irresistible, this movement, for educated 
persons. Many of the younger Frenchmen of your 
class too are very progressive. They have quite 
abandoned the old opinions about religion and mor- 
als. They too join the great Forward Movement. 
Nothing can stop it! Nature, Health, and Reason; 
these three. And the greatest of these is Reason! ” 

“ What is to become of the diseased, the old, the 
useless, and the undesirable persons ? ” asked Sir 
Christopher, who had been listening with much in- 
terest to the Professor’s elucidation. 


THE THOUGHT 


87 

“ The incurably ill in body and mind, and the old 
and infirm (to whom life is but a burden) will be 
painlessly put out of existence and cease to suf- 
fer/’ responded the Professor with a benevolent 
smile. 

“ But, my dear sir,” protested Sydney Bolton, 
“ that is murder in the first degree ! ” 

“ On statute-books as at present devised,” re- 
joined the Professor, waving aside such errors, 
“ based upon an entirely wrong notion of the sacred- 
ness of human lives — (mind, I say ‘lives/ not 
‘ life ’) — I am aware that the wilful taking of life 
is called murder. But as we advance we shall make 
distinctions. To deprive another human being of 
life through hatred, or in a fit of angry passion, will 
always be a wrong action, because in committing it 
man offends his own higher nature; but to suppress 
certain lives (to eliminate certain undesirable units 
which interfere with the harmony of Society, or to 
put out of pain the infirm or the mentally unsound) 
will surely, we believe, come to be looked upon, in 
our Forward Movement, as a benefaction not only 
to the human race but to the individual eliminated. 
I believe,” said the Professor, glancing around with 
a benevolent smile and with his smooth pink face 
tilted on one side, which gave him a cherubic and 
almost a roguish expression, “that I am considered 
to be rather radical, as yet, in my views, but I can 
see the trend of human thought; and I believe that 


88 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


even I — an old man — may live to see myself 
looked upon as a conservative.” 

The Professor remained standing in the centre 
of the room as though his lecture were not yet fin- 
ished, but he was ready to answer “ intelligent ques- 
tions.” 

“ Is the individual to have any option as to 
whether he shall live or die ? ” demanded Lady Bol- 
ton in a deep bass voice, leaning forward and fixing 
a malevolent eye upon the genial countenance of the 
scholar. 

“ My dear lady,” remonstrated the Professor, 
“ we consider only the welfare of human Society. 
I have reached the point myself where the individual 
has ceased to interest me.” 

“ Thanks be to God ! ” cried Lady Bolton, re- 
lapsing into her armchair, " He has not yet reached 
that point! ” But the Professor took no notice of 
this remark. 

Sir Christopher’s attention seemed keenly aroused : 
“ You really believe, then,” he asked, “ that the sup- 
pression of human lives may be considered, under 
certain circumstances, quite justifiable? ” 

“ Undoubtedly,” answered Professor Wilson. 
“ I may say that, in the United States, all wide- 
minded and right-thinking people are coming to see 
this matter in the light of Reason. One of our 
gifted writers — a woman too — has written a book 


THE THOUGHT 


89 


called ‘ The Fruit of the Tree/ in which the only 
doubt one feels is in regard to the motive. But as 
to putting any one out of pain the Professor shud- 
dered as he mentioned this abhorrent thing, “ there 
can be no doubt whatever. If people would only 
think! There are even now a few good persons 
who are willing to suffer persecution and to do what 
they believe to be right in defiance of law, just as in 
the old times (history tells us) the zealous upholders 
of different religious opinions have always done. I 
was much pleased to read, quite recently, of some 
good old Shakers at a settlement in Florida, who 
put an end, humanely, to one of their number, a 
woman who was incurably ill of consumption. This 
is most encouraging; especially as these simple peo- 
ple still practise what they call ‘ Christian piety/ 
From what I have read in the newspapers, the pub- 
lic opinion of the neighbourhood upholds them/ , 

“ With a good motive, then, you really think that 
human lives might be suppressed t ” asked Sir Chris- 
topher. 

“ Undoubtedly,” answered the Professor. 

“ Your religion has a temple with no God at all in 
it,” cried Lady Bolton, becoming irrepressible. 
“ Not a vestige of one! ” 

“ The ‘ Religion of the Future/ Madam,” said 
the Professor, taking from the side pocket of his 
dinner-jacket a small pamphlet, “as explained by 


9 o SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

our illustrious leader, so long President of Harvard 
University, ‘ has no creed, dogma, book or institu- 
tion/ These are his own words.” 

“ What the — what has it got ? ” demanded the 
irate old lady. 

“ Nature and Hygiene and Reason ! ” responded 
the Professor. “ To all persons of culture and edu- 
cation the appeal of our Forward Movement must 
be, as I said before, irresistible. And now, I really 
must say good night, thanking you with all my heart 
for your kind attention. We expect great things of 
England. The people are becoming aroused, they 
are thinking! One sees an irrepressible leaven at 
work even in the Anglican Church, which (you will 
pardon my saying so) has been rather (especially 
in High-Church circles) behind the times; but like 
the whole human race it is bound to grow and de- 
velop. Some advanced men, like your Canon Bran- 
don, already give me really great encouragement.” 

With a beaming face the kindly old Professor 
shook hands with everybody and then went off to 
bed. He refused the assistance of the valet who 
awaited him, saying benevolently to that rather be- 
wildered person : “ Every man should be his own 
servant. No man is master where I live. Neces- 
sary domestics are called * help/ ” 

To which the valet replied, “ Yes, sir, thank you, 
sir,” and retired with a rather poor opinion of this 
new kind of American, so different from the mil- 


THE THOUGHT 


9i 


lionaire type who occasionally enjoyed the hospital- 
ity of Leighton Towers, whirling about in a motor 
like a fiery chariot, and scattering gold broadcast. 
The valet would have preferred even a moderate tip 
to the Professor’s genial recognition of an empty- 
handed equality. 

“ By the way,” said Harry, as he gave Melanie 
her bedroom candle, receiving in return the little 
dog’s paw to shake, who was seated on her left arm, 
“ how did this dangerous and forbidden animal in- 
vade England ? ” 

“ Hush ! ” cried Melanie. “ Nobody has thought 
to ask this but you, and I should not tell them if they 
did. But I will tell you, Harry, and you will keep 
it a dead secret ? ” 

Harry promised. 

“ I had not expected to bring Missy, and I felt 
very sad about it, for we have never been separated, 
as I have not been to England since Bonnemaman 
gave her to me a year ago. I was saying this to 
Bonnemaman, just as we were leaving Paris, and 
suddenly she said : * A few pounds more or less 

upon an old woman would make no manifest differ- 
ence. Give the dog to me ! ’ Granny left the room 
bearing Missy, and returned in a quarter of an hour 
fully equipped for the journey. She looked only a 
little stouter. What do you suppose she had done? 
She had put Missy in a pillow-case, and Timmins 
had sewn tapes at the upper corners, which went 


92 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

over Granny’s shoulders and around her waist and 
were tied in front. A slit was cut in the pillow-case 
to let in some air. We had a railway carriage to 
ourselves from Paris to Boulogne, and Papa never 
knew it. Missy slept placidly on Granny’s lap. 
Sydney, who had come over with Granny to meet 
us in Paris, did know, and he threatened to ‘ Boo ’ 
at Missy on the boat and make her bark, and he said 
Granny would then be arrested as a smuggler. But 
all that was just to tease me! When we went on 
the boat in Boulogne, Granny was swathed all over 
in that enormous manteau which she calls her mar- 
tial cloak, and she swept majestically up the plank, 
across the deck and downstairs into her cabin. She 
looked so grim and fierce ( for she does not like the 
crossing) that I don’t believe any one would have 
dared to molest her, had they known that she was 
smuggling a dozen dogs. She might have hung 
them in festoons all around her. But nobody knew, 
and the man came and went who marks the baggage 
in the cabins, without suspicion. He only said: 
‘ Anything to declare? ’ and Granny answered from 
the sofa with an inarticulate moan, which seemed to 
satisfy him. Once, after that, I was terribly scared 
as I stood outside at the door of the cabin, for I 
heard a squeak from Missy ; but it was quickly lost 
in a groan from Granny that sounded like the sea- 
lions in the Zoo at feeding-time. So here we are ! 
But, please, don’t say anything about it ! ” 


CHAPTER XI 


E ARLY the next morning Harry and Melanie 
walked two miles to early Mass, and returned 
through the Park before breakfast. 

They found everybody assembled in the dining- 
room. The Professor with a genial smile upon his 
pink face, disclosed some very white porcelain teeth. 
With his head, as usual, a little to one side, he pro- 
claimed it an event in his life. “ I have slept in a 
historic house on English soil ; I have actually slum- 
bered in a great-four-post bed (with a canopy) into 
which I literally had to climb. And this morning, 
also, what an awakening ! What a new experience ! 
To look out and see the sun rise upon a typical 
English garden, with clipped yews and paved walks, 
soft lawns and an old sun-dial. Everything that I 
have read about and sometimes caught glimpses of, 
but never before lived in. This is really a new sen- 
sation ! And it is Nature ! It is Reality ! That is 
all man wants or needs. The fantastic conceptions 
of Elysian fields, of Paradise, and — if I may say 
so — of Heaven and of God, are so superfluous, so 
crudely overdone ! They must pass away. Reason 
93 


94 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

and Reality are enough !” And the Professor 
beamed on everybody. 

Lady Bolton glared at him over the rim of a large 
coffee-cup, and said, “ Humph ! ” as she set it down ; 
and the watchful bull-terrier, Sydney, cocked his 
head on one side and looked at her provokingly. 
He almost winked. The discreet Marquis ate his 
breakfast without any change of expression. Sir 
Christopher, however, rose to the occasion. 

“ How right you are,” he exclaimed, expanding 
his broad shoulders and leaning back in his chair. 
“ Everything that I hear you say, Professor Wilson, 
expresses and fills out the conviction which has 
grown within my own mind, ill-concealed for years, 
and justifies it. I remember how, even as a small 
boy, I revolted against the hard, dry stuff called ‘ re- 
ligion’ that was crammed into me. The whole 
thing seemed a hollow form and a hypocrisy. I feel 
as though your Forward Movement is creating an 
atmosphere fit for educated men to breathe.” 

“ And in our future civilization, my dear Sir 
Christopher, there shall be none but educated men! ” 
responded the Professor, delighted to find what he 
called a ** congenial mind.” “ There shall come a 
vast sifting and winnowing; a sweeping away of 
chaff.” 

“ But there is much to be swept away,” said Sir 
Christopher, and his eyes glanced around the table 
with an expression of frank disapproval, except 


THE THOUGHT 


95 


when they encountered a silent but decided protest in 
poor little Constance’s face. Then Sir Christopher’s 
countenance relaxed into an indulgent smile. His 
disapproving eye had rested longest on Harry and 
Melanie. Here was a pair of Papist lovers, bent on 
establishing a Catholic household (a kind of “ seat 
of infection ”) in one of the finest places in all Eng- 
land; and hoping, no doubt, to found a Catholic 
family. Sir Christopher felt it to be an outrage 
upon his fine old Protestant name. And all this had 
been made possible because of the whim of “ two 
fool girls ” in Madrid so many years ago. Sir 
Christopher cast a bitter look at Lady Bolton, feeling 
that she (a masterful woman if ever there was one) 
might certainly have prevented this pestilent disease 
from breaking out in her family. 

Then his quick mind began to seek for a remedy, 
and a new hope sprang suddenly to life in his brain, 
which was: that perhaps Harry (being after all the 
grandson of Sir Christopher’s own father and 
mother, people of the soundest commonsense) might 
be won over from superstitious fooleries — if only 
he would listen to reason — and then perhaps this 
French girl, who seemed a * flibbertigibbet ’ kind of 
creature, might be induced to give up the alliance. 
The bigoted old Marquis might even break off the 
match himself. He was too rich to be mercenary 
about it. These thoughts, which had been distilling 
themselves in Sir Christopher’s brain over night, 


96 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

now suddenly became crystallized into an idee fixe. 

Whenever he had taken up any question seriously, 
either in public or private life, Sir Christopher had 
been the kind of man never to let go until he had 
seen it through, whether it were an important politi- 
cal matter, or only the tracking and finishing of a 
wounded stag. The principle was the same. He 
had both a hot passion and a dogged determination 
to end successfully everything that he undertook. 

“ Why can’t you stay longer, or come to us 
again?” Sir Christopher asked the Professor 
abruptly. 

But the Professor had many pressing engage- 
ments, and his time in England was limited and all 
mapped out. There were to be lectures and meet- 
ings in London; everything winding up with the 
great “ International Eugenist Congress.” 

“ I am afraid I could not spare another night he 
said, “ and I regret that you are too far from Lon- 
don for a day’s motor excursion.” 

Sir Christopher looked appealingly at Harry. 
“ You love English country-places, Professor,” he 
said, “ and my nephew has one in Sussex, near the 
sea, more beautiful than this one, and quite easy to 
reach from London for luncheon, either by train or 
by motor. Perhaps he might have us go to him 
some day this week or next ? ” 

Harry at once responded that it would give him 
pleasure. He wanted to please his uncle, and Sir 


THE THOUGHT 


97 


Christopher beamed with gratification when the 
Professor replied that he would be delighted, “ the 
sooner the better,” and named the following Thurs- 
day. 

That learned gentleman departed in a motor, 
accompanied by the Marquis, who was going to High 
Mass in the village where was the railway station. 
The Professor smiled upon him, a rather contemp- 
tuous smile, when the Marquis explained where he 
was going. 

“ Attending strictly to your devotions still, I see,” 
he said with an air of knowing so much better. 

Lady Bolton, Lady Louisa, Constance, and Syd- 
ney started off a half-hour later to walk to the 
Anglican Church which was just outside the Park. 
Sir Christopher sat alone in his library, thinking. 
Since his wife’s death he had never gone to church. 

After luncheon Sir Christopher and Harry walked 
up and down a wide garden-path smoking, near to 
a vine-clad pergola built especially for Constance’s 
pleasure, where, on a stone table, she fed the birds 
every day, — feathered things of all kinds, the just 
and the unjust; pigeons, warblers, or sparrows. 
She and Sydney were in the pergola at this moment 
distributing crumbs and grain to a chattering and 
twittering flock that was chilled into eagerness at 
the approach of autumn. 

“ My dear boy,” said Sir Christopher to Harry, 
“ it is really very kind of you to ask the old Pro- 


98 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

fessor, and I assure you that I appreciate it ; for of 
course I know that you do not (at least at present) 
agree with his views. But I believe, myself, that 
this Forward Movement is a great event in the world 
for everybody. It is truly * catholic ’ or universal, 
in the highest sense ; and might be accepted by every 
intelligent person who is willing to think things out 
for himself.” 

Harry saw at a glance that his uncle was deter- 
mined to “ convert ” him. “ My poor Uncle Chris- 
topher/’ he thought, “ will be bitterly disappointed 
when he finds me obdurate and his efforts useless, 
but I would rather allow him to make this attempt ; 
unhindered ; for I never saw him more set upon any- 
thing, except killing! ” 

Harry said aloud that he was very glad to please 
Sir Christopher, and asked him to be host at the 
luncheon. 

“ And please, my dear uncle, select the guests 
yourself,” Harry added, “ for you will know who 
would be congenial. If the weather is fine, we shall 
lunch on the terrace by the sea, where my dear father 
loved to sit. The stone table holds sixteen if we sit 
on both sides, and nine if we sit only on the side 
facing the sea, with one place at each end.” 

“ That would be quite enough — even too many,” 
Sir Christopher observed. “ However, with you 
and myself and the Professor perhaps I could find 
six picked men, representatives of different opinions, 


THE THOUGHT 


99 


but ready to listen.” Sir Christopher took out his 
note-book and a pencil. “ We want a liberal An- 
glican first and foremost. Canon Harding is just 
the man.” And Sir Christopher wrote the name 
down. “ I know he would like to come. I fancy 
he fears to be too conspicuous if he attends the 
Professor’s lectures, but I am told that he reads 
eagerly all the newspaper reports of them. We 
must have a statesman, too — I don’t want a young, 
progressive politician, for they are all with us al- 
ready. This shall be a little propaganda: of Un- 
faith, would you call it, Harry? I think I will ask 
Colby. He is hardly a statesman, but the older men 
really worthy to be called by that name seem to be 
all dead or on the shelf. Colby will do. He is in 
the Foreign Office, and he is an old diplomat. His 
wealth and solidity give him influence. Besides, he 
is a sensible Anglican, not what the Professor calls 
4 church-y.’ He finds the Anglican body out of 
place when it attempts to be a dogmatic teacher, or 
to take flights into the unknown. I’ll ask Colby,” 
and Sir Christopher added his name in the note- 
book. 

“ We must have Finance, too. I shall ask Sir 
John Thornton. He is keen about the Forward 
Movement, I know, and a very useful man. That 
makes three. I must have also Medicine repre- 
sented — Sir William Benton would, I think, be the 
best man. What the Professor has to say about 


ioo SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


hygiene would interest him. He is a ‘ progressive 9 
in medicine, and, like all scientific men of note to- 
day, he is an avowed agnostic, which really means a 
hardened unbeliever. Now we come to Literature. 
The Professor wants to meet Anthony Howlett, I 
know (while saying that he disapproves of the lack 
of all respect for social laws and morality shown in 
Howlett’ s novels and plays). The Professor, how- 
ever, declares, and very truly, that : ‘ It is always best 
for reform to go too far at first than not far enough.’ 
He spoke of this in alluding to what is called the 
* new morality ’ last week in his lecture. I’ll cer- 
tainly ask Howlett.” Sir Christopher paused and 
scanned the note-book. “ Let me see,” he said ; “ we 
have only five names, Harry, but it is really a fine lot 
of men. With us two and the Professor there will 
be eight altogether. I’m inclined to think that is 
enough. With more than this number the conversa- 
tion would become general, and it would degenerate 
into a mere lunch-party. I want the guests all to 
listen to the Professor, and to hear what he says to 
each one of them. Stop a moment! There is the 
young Boston doctor who accompanies the Profes- 
sor — I forgot about him — That makes the number 
exactly nine all told.” 

“ You will sit in the centre on the side, and the 
Boston doctor and I at either end,” said Harry. 

Then he went away to find Melanie, leaving Sir 
Christopher to stroll about and smoke another cigar, 


THE THOUGHT 


IOI 


in a state of complete satisfaction at the success of 
his scheme to “ bring Harry over.” 

The next day, Monday, all the guests departed 
from Leighton Towers. Harry went to London 
with the rest, to dine with Lady Bolton and to say 
good-bye, at the station, the following morning, to 
Melanie and the Marquis, who were returning to 
France, having decided to cut short their visit to 
England on account of the death of Harry’s father. 

Harry was to join them at Saint-Lambert at the 
end of September, going up from there to Paris the 
second week in October for the wedding. These 
pre-matrimonial arrangements shocked greatly the 
sensibilities of poor Mademoiselle du Parquet. 

And now my story shall move on faster, for we 
are coming to the “ events.” 


CHAPTER XII 


S IR RICHARD LEIGHTON, Gerald Leighton’s 
father, had found the sport of the Stock Ex- 
change a more amusing recreation than destroying 
animals, and having been born with a remarkable 
financial “ flair ” and living at a time when great 
fortunes could be achieved by speculation, from a 
wealthy man he became in a few years one of the 
richest men of his time. He married rather late in 
life, the beautiful daughter of a Greek banker, 
thereby adding also to his wealth. From her, the 
second son, Gerald (and later his own son Harry), 
had acquired their Greek profiles, as from a more 
remote ancestor they had come by their Spanish 
eyes. The blond British elder son, Sir Christopher, 
inherited Leighton House in London and Leighton 
Towers in Dorsetshire, while for his younger son, 
Gerald, at the time of his marriage, Sir Richard 
bought an estate of two thousand acres in Sussex, 
whose owner after disastrous experiences in stock 
gambling had gone into bankruptcy. The house had 
been built toward the end of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, 
out of the ruins of an old Norman castle. There 
were vast lawns and gardens, ending toward the east 
102 


THE THOUGHT 


103 


in a grass terrace, terminated abruptly by a stone 
wall, beneath which, at the bottom of a steep gravel 
bank, were the pebbles and sand of the beach, which 
was covered always at high tide. 

Beyond the park, on the south, stretched dense 
copse woods, and rough forest-land, hemmed in by 
a long high wall, along which on the outside ran a 
narrow road, at the edge of a sand-cliff, leading to 
the fishing village of Warmouth. A path inside of 
the park followed a small stream which flowed 
through the woods and came out through a postern 
gate to join this road just beyond the sand-cliff. 
Here a bridge crossed the stream, which was checked 
in its course twice a day by the tide. At this point 
began a long scattered line of houses ending in the 
small town at the mouth of the harbour, which was 
so narrow at the entrance from the sea as scarcely 
to give room for more than three boats abreast. In 
old times, when smuggling was a flourishing means 
of livelihood, Warmouth had been a most useful 
landing-place. At present the inhabitants are rather 
dull, and tolerably contented. 

It was Thursday morning and, the day being clear 
and warm enough, Harry decided to have luncheon 
served upon the terrace. All the guests had accepted 
and, as I know them all, I will try to describe them 
beforehand. 

Colby had been many years in the diplomatic serv- 
ice. As a very young man I lived at various posts 


104 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


with my father (as his private secretary) and so I 
came to know Colby well. He is older than I, being 
about sixty-five at the present time. He is tall with 
sloping shoulders and mild blue eyes, and has a cleft 
chin slightly retreating, overhung by a rather heavy 
grey moustache. He is excessively neat and trim in 
his dress and domestic surroundings. No matter in 
what place Colby’s lot happened to be temporarily 
cast, — Europe or Cathay — he would always have 
(and he was rich enough to afford it everywhere) 
the same spotless “ interior,” with the same impec- 
cable servants, two Englishmen and a French chef. 
Colby’s dejeuners were everywhere delightful, al- 
most invariably with ladies present, wives or daugh- 
ters of the Corps Diplomatique. A witty British 
Secretary once described Colby in a few words, vivid 
if fantastic. He said: “I never look at Colby 
without feeling convinced that he must be descended 
from a long line of old maids! ” 

Colby is, withal, a man of sound sense, solid intel- 
ligence and absolute probity. He is considered in- 
dispensable in the Foreign Office. Sir Christopher 
especially wanted Colby as a guest on this day, be- 
cause he is a Broad-Church Anglican, the kind of 
Englishman who (after having lived long in various 
countries nominally “ Papist”) becomes firmly con- 
vinced that “ the decadence of the Latin races ” is 
entirely owing to “ Romish practices and influ- 
ence ! ” Colby is also absolutely certain that every 


THE THOUGHT 


105 


virtue possessed by “ the ascending Anglo-Saxon 
race ” has been the offspring of the Reformation 
only. 

“ Such men as Colby,” Sir Christopher had in- 
formed the Professor, “ are bound to bring all the 
influence worth having in the Anglican Church right 
into line with the Forward Movement. At heart 
these broad-minded Anglicans are already with us.” 

And the Professor had observed complacently: 
“ Anglicanism has either got to give up being 
* church-y 5 or die of inanition and decay, like 
Popery. No system of religion can exist to-day 
without a sound, square, ethical basis. We hope for 
much help from the right sort of Anglicans. Intel- 
ligent Romanists must come to us too in time, since 
our movement — for educated men — is simply irre- 
sistible.” 

“ That ” said Sir Christopher, “ is my most ardent 
wish. What would I not do to cure that nephew of 
mine of the superstitious follies he was born and 
bred in ! ” 

“ He is a handsome but rather foreign-looking 
young man,” commented the Professor, “ and, I 
should say, prejudiced 

“ My mother was a Greek and a very beautiful 
woman,” said Sir Christopher. “ She was twenty- 
nine when she married my father, a man over forty, 
and we two boys were born after she was thirty. 
She died when I was ten years old and Gerald eight, 


io6 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


but I can remember her still looking young and 
beautiful at forty. Gerald and Harry resembled my 
mother, while I am considered to be the image of my 
father.” 

“ You are indeed a true Anglo-Saxon, of the fine 
old Norse type, — an invasion which brought beauty 
into Anglia. You know, you yourself might be 
painted as a Viking.” 

Sir Christopher smiled a pleased smile. “ I did 
not imagine that you could flatter, Professor,” he 
said. 

“ I am not flattering,” responded the didactic 
Professor. “ It is an interesting question of type ! ” 

To return to the guests. Next to Colby came 
Canon Harding. He was smooth-shaven and rather 
sacerdotal-looking, although he always posed as one 
inclined to sniff at “ the cloth,” even occasionally 
(and with impunity) defying Episcopal admonition; 
remaining a Canon of the Anglican Church while 
apparently much more at home in the outside sec- 
tarian tents (which he encouraged and frequented) 
of the Nonconformist persuasion. Canon Harding 
had never, however, strayed quite so far out of 
bounds as to-day, and his curiosity was tinged with a 
certain nervousness and anxiety. Colby and the 
Canon got along very well together. 

Sir Christopher, as host, sat in the centre of the 
long stone table which had been concealed by a 
wooden close-fitting top, surmounted by a table- 


THE THOUGHT 


107 

cloth. The Anglican clergyman sat on his right, and 
the apostle of the New Religion on his left. Sir 
Christopher had made a polite apology to the Profes- 
sor for this arrangement, saying something super- 
cilious about the “ social precedence of an Anglican 
dignitary,” but the serene Professor only observed : 

“ My dear sir, we care nothing about such trivial 
distinctions in the new world. We recognize no 
higher or lower seat. Such things are only mere 
points having position without magnitude. They 
are the surviving shreds and patches of class pre- 
rogative, which must in time be cast off as utterly 
outworn.” 

Next to the Professor sat Anthony Howlett, the 
eminent writer of fiction, whom the Professor so 
ardently desired to meet. Howlett considers all 
moral laws that spring from religious authority to 
be fetters degrading to mankind. The hounds of his 
wit are always yelping merrily at the heels of the 
fugitive old-fashioned Protestant proprieties, which 
fly from the brazen nakedness of twentieth-century 
realism. His utter ignorance of religion makes him 
tilt (like a gallant knight-errant) at his own fancies 
as to what is faith. Anthony Howlett is a past- 
master in the amusing flippancy which has supple- 
mented wit in modern society, and a masterly pro- 
ducer of what George Meredith once called “ olfac- 
tory literature.” The nose has indeed become the 
new and strange instrument which the Muse of mod- 


io8 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


ern art delights to play upon, and what symphonies 
she executes! 

The Professor’s Puritan nose recoiled from some 
of the “ impressions ” created by Anthony Howlett 
in his plays and novels, but he hailed him all the 
same as a dashing and splendid “ avant-courier ” of 
the Forward Movement, — a swashbuckling scatterer 
of pious chaff ; a destroyer of that false and “ servile 
morality dependent upon the authority of a despot 
God,” as the Professor put it serenely, “ which must 
be completely swept out of existence before we can 
have clean, fresh soil in which to plant a sane hu- 
man morality upheld by Self-Respect, Reason, and 
Hygiene.” 

Seated on Anthony Howlett’s left hand came Sir 
William Benton, the distinguished surgeon. He had 
been invited to represent “ the scientific mind.” 
Next to him, at one end of the board, was the 
young Boston doctor, and at the opposite end sat 
Harry Leighton. On Harry’s left, next to Colby, 
came, last but not at all least, Sir John Thornton, the 
King of Finance; an out-and-out materialist and 
" bon viveur ” The Professor had sagely observed 
that : “ there must be oil for the wheels of our ma- 
chinery. It would be idle to under-estimate the in- 
fluence of material wealth.” 

The apostle of the new religion beamed (both 
smiling face and gold-rimmed spectacles) as he took 


THE THOUGHT 


109 

his seat and glanced around at the guests. “ Really 
picked men,” Jie thought. 

Under the direction of Egan, the stout old butler 
(who looked like an Anglican Bishop but was really 
an Irish papist) three footmen unpacked gigantic 
hampers containing the material for a delightful al 
fresco banquet, both solid and liquid. The guests 
fell to with a keen appetite sharpened by the journey 
from London and refined by the beauty of sea, sky, 
flowers and fruit. Three large silver baskets placed 
along the middle of the table were heaped with a pro- 
fusion of grapes, pears, melons, and peaches, recall- 
ing the brilliance of a Paul Veronese Marriage Feast 
at Cana; but to the Professor’s mind another scene 
occurred as a fit subject for enlightened facetious- 
ness. Such profane jests are often uttered in Cam- 
bridge and Boston, the new world with which he was 
familiar. Why not in modern England ? 

“ I am reminded,” he declared, “ of a favourite 
subject of the old masters, although our company 
is fewer in number. Of course we each represent 
a historic person. There is no doubt as to our 
host,” and the Professor smiled and nodded at Sir 
Christopher, “ nor as to the Canon,” he added. 

The young Boston doctor looked up, catching the 
flying jest. “ I am afraid there is no doubt as to 
who I am, either,” he said, smiling at his own wit. 
“ My red hair and beard give me away. However, 


no SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


I won’t be cast down about it; for you know,” he 
added, addressing the whole company, his face 
lighted up by bright blue eyes and shining teeth, “ I 
have always thought that there is a good deal to be 
said for Judas Iscariot. He was hard up for 
money ! ” 

Canon Harding bit his lip and Harry’s blood 
boiled, although he had to keep quiet. 

“ Is this a sample of American humour?” whis- 
pered Colby, disgusted, to the Anglican ecclesiastic. 

The Professor came to his own rescue to smooth 
things over, seeing that perhaps the jest was not ap- 
preciated. 

“ There is something always to be said on both 
sides of every question,” he said genially. “ Ev- 
erybody has a right to his own point of view. Now 
in Boston we radicals and reformers speak very 
freely. We especially * must clear our minds of 
cant,’ as Thomas Carlyle recommends. We have 
shaken off the trammels of ecclesiasticism once and 
forever. I do not hesitate to say this in your pres- 
ence, Canon Harding,” added the Professor, turning 
to the Anglican prelate, “ since you yourself, and 
those who agree with you, are doing inside your 
church more effective work in pulling down absurd- 
ities in high station, and upholding the power of the 
laity, than any of us could accomplish from outside. 
Your own bold defiance of the tyranny of an 
Anglican Episcopate has struck a sharp blow at the 


THE THOUGHT 


hi 


root of ecclesiastical supremacy. The great work 
must go on everywhere. People of culture and re- 
finement cannot accept any longer restraints which 
Reason bids them cast aside. 

“ In America all the churches (except of course 
the Roman) are coming our way. The ‘ men and 
religion ’ movement begun by Protestants more than 
a year ago in the United States is distinctly with us 
in its object. It is only nominally Christian. Its 
aim is purely moral and philanthropic, its Christian- 
ity so mitigated that almost any modern philanthro- 
pist can accept or ignore what is only a whisper 
spoken in a dim background. I can’t for the life of 
me see why we, the offspring of advanced Unitarian- 
ism, as well as our friends and allies, the 4 Re- 
formed Jews’ and ‘ Young Turks’ (all of whose 
opinions are identical with our own) should not be- 
come members of such an organization. Its avowed 
object is to pull down all the barriers of creed and 
dogma — which separate the different sects — and 
the ultimate end of such effacement is bound to be 
the complete passing away of Christianity as a re- 
ligion , and the extinction even of the name. We 
shall then find ourselves united in the Religion of the 
Future, that great uplift of mankind which has been 
so clearly and eloquently set forth and defined by 
our illustrious President Emeritus of Harvard, 
Charles Eliot. 

“ You have asked me, gentlemen, to explain to you 


ii 2 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


our Forward Movement. This is my excuse for 
seeming to monopolise the conversation. I shall be 
very glad to answer any questions or meet any ob- 
jections.” And the Professor paused long enough 
to enjoy a cup of cold consomme. “ This is very 
refreshing to the throat,” he observed. 

The Professor cared very little for what he ate 
except as a restorative from fatigue or an additional 
supply of fuel for the brain-cells. He habitually 
ate what was set before him, not thinking about its 
quality. At home he consumed with satisfaction a 
daily supply of baked beans and doughnuts. He 
was now engaged in devouring chaud-froid, salad 
and even foie gras. He seemed neither to like nor 
dislike these luxuries. He was only quite firm 
about drink, absolutely refusing wine; turning his 
glasses mouth downwards upon the table-cloth and 
asking distinctly for “ cold water.” 

Nobody seeming desirous to interrupt him, the 
Professor continued : “ To speak of the temples of 

our Unitarian Society as churches and their preach- 
ers as ministers is only a form of words. We shall 
coin others, more appropriate, as we advance, be- 
cause the old expressions give an utterly false idea. 
To show you how completely we have shaken off 
the authority or influence of what used to be called 
‘ Gospel Truth/ let me give you an amusing example. 
A friend of mine preached in Boston, a year or two 
ago, a sermon in a Unitarian * church * on the hack- 


THE THOUGHT 


XI 3 


neyed parable of the Pharisee and the Publican. 
But my friend took a new view (not that taken in 
the legend) and he proved his case. ‘ We zvant 
Pharisees here and now in Boston/ he said. ‘ The 
world needs them everywhere as statesmen, citizens 
and husbands ! The Pharisee is the upright and just 
man, whom we want to have for our neighbour. He 
is self-respecting. He performs all his duties to 
society. As for that grovelling publican, lost to all 
decent self-respect and openly avowing himself to be 
an evil-liver, there is no place for him in our modern 
commonwealth, and he should be cast out from the 
pale of the new civilisation altogether as an undesir- 
able citizen/ 

“ I don’t remember my friend’s exact words, of 
course, but I give you a clear idea of what he meant 
and said. He laid down in this sermon what is the 
fundamental law of our splendid new science of 
Eugenics; the elimination and sterilization of un- 
desirable units, in order to promote the health and 
happiness of all the rest of mankind, and to produce 
a genuine ‘ survival of the fittest.’ ” 

Canon Harding raised his head. Pie had been 
leaning his cheek on his hand with downcast eyes. 

“ But Christ said — ” he began, and was immedi- 
ately interrupted by the eager Professor : 

“ Of course he did, of course he did, my dear 
Canon Harding. We all know what he said, and 
his view of the subject may have been well enough 


1 14 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


for that time — but at any rate it was only his way 
of looking at it ! ” 

A good many remarks and discussions followed 
during the rest of the repast which it would be 
tedious for me to set down, and Harry, who had 
patiently been on pins and needles, was thankful 
when his uncle rose and the company drifted back to 
the house for coffee and cigars in the long picture- 
gallery. 

Professor Wilson, who never drank coffee — or, 
as he phrased it, “ indulge myself in any kind of 
stimulants ” — drew Canon Harding aside, as soon 
as the latter had taken a cup and helped himself to 
sugar. 

“ Come with me, my dear Canon,” he said, “ and 
sit for a moment in this deep and retired embrasure. 
I have a few words to say to yourself alone.” 

Canon Harding looked slightly uneasy, but fol- 
lowed the Professor into one of the wide bay-win- 
dows opening from the picture-gallery. When they 
were comfortably seated and secure from interrup- 
tion, the Professor began: 

“ I want to talk to you especially about that sec- 
tion of the Anglican Church of which you and your 
friend Canon Brandon are the conspicuous leaders, 
and which comprises all those persons of your de- 
nomination who hold progressive, intelligent and 
liberal opinions. 

“ Now I know, my dear Canon Harding,” pursued 


THE THOUGHT 


US 

the Professor, genially smiling, “ that you and your 
friends may think that we disagree fundamentally ; 
but I believe just the contrary, — that our differences 
are mere words, straws that float on the surface. ,, 

Canon Harding stirred the sugar in his coffee with 
a nervous hand. “ I consider one of the questions 
upon which we differ to be decidedly fundamental, 
my dear Professor,” he asserted; “for you deny 
Christianity, while I, to quote from my dear friend 
Canon Brandon, ‘ emphasize the unique and supreme 
authority of the Divine Founder within the Chris- 
tian Church,’ just as he does.” 

“ I have heard Canon Brandon speak those very 
words myself, in a recent sermon,” interrupted the 
Professor, delighted and eager. “ I actually went 
to hear him preach, and, if I may say so, I think 
an outsider may be able to detect the trend of a hid- 
den thought, of which a man himself may even be 
quite unconscious. Perhaps I may express myself 
in the Psalmist’s language : ‘ Deep calleth unto 
deep.’ Words are mere ripples ! ” 

“ What do you mean, exactly, about that ser- 
mon ? ” asked Canon Harding, uneasily. 

“ I mean that it made me, more than ever before, 
ardently desire his and your personal acquaintance,” 
rejoined the Professor, “ for I said to myself : ‘ Here 
is a mind which really belongs to us, which is irresist- 
ibly drawn toward us.’ May I go on ? ” 

Canon Harding nodded, and the Professor pur- 


n6 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


sued: “ From long habit as a teacher, and having 
by nature a good memory for words, I am able to 
retain literally the phrases which strike me in any 
impressive language, written or spoken. As I have 
already told you, I heard Canon Brandon’s sermon 
and I read afterwards the report of it printed in 
the Times, and several sentences which I remember, 
word for word, are very convincing to me. I have 
only to substitute the word ‘ Humanity ’ for 'Jesus * 
and you both are at one with us — as you really are, 
perhaps unconsciously, already.” 

“ You think that I, a Christian, could give up 
Christ’s Personality?” demanded Canon Harding 
in a shocked tone. 

“ Not at all, not at all,” the Professor hastened to 
answer soothingly. “ You may, every one of you, 
keep any private opinions you please about any indi- 
vidual whatsoever. Some people deify Mrs. Eddy — 
why not ? It may help them and it does no harm to 
anybody else. It does not signify. Good friends 
may differ on all such unimportant questions. (I 
have known excellent wives adoring husbands who 
seemed to me to be mere mortals ! ) The important 
truth is this : What you and your influential section 
of the Anglican denomination have declared to be 
Christianity has opened doors and beaten down bar- 
riers; and it must expand and spread far outside of 
its former narrow and self-defined limits. It must 
merge all personalities into that one sacred name Hu- 


THE THOUGHT 


ii 7 

manity, which embraces all Mankind, past, present 
and to come — what Clemenceau calls ‘The Titan- 
esque atom, Man, who must one day become the true 
God/ Ah, yes! you must indeed join him and us 
in this * divine escalade des cieux!’ You have al- 
ready put on the armour of light. As to what con- 
stitutes ‘ light ’ is really the only point upon which 
Paul and I differ; and (if I may say so), you and 
Canon Brandon stand closer to me than to Paul.” 

The Professor laid a dry and skinny hand upon 
the black coat-sleeve of the perturbed ecclesiastic (his 
parchment hands were in striking contrast to his 
pink and unctuous face), and leaning forward he 
spoke ‘convincingly’ (to use his own favourite ex- 
pression) saying: “ Let me repeat to you some of 
Canon Brandon’s own words, which I found most 
impressive, from my point of view. ‘ To own the 
lordship of Jesus in the rich apostolic sense draws in 
its train a doctrine about the Church too great for 
such petty categories as the zealots of the churches 
formulate.’ Why, what are the different r churches 9 
except collections of ‘ petty categories ’ ? Canon 
Brandon declares also concerning the Christian 
creeds, that ‘ they cannot be rightly or reasonably 
clothed with a final authority.’ What a courageous 
Denial of Dogma is contained in those words! 
And he further states his conviction that the Chris- 
tion communion extends its range ‘beyond all the 
local and denominational descriptions of Christen- 


n8 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


dom/ He kills outright with this swift sling-shot 
that unwieldly old giant Denominationalism — a 
David slaying Goliath ! 

“ Bear with me yet a moment ! ” pursued the Pro- 
fessor, raising a bony finger as he noticed that 
Canon Harding showed restive signs of interrup- 
tion. “ I have nearly finished my analysis. Canon 
Brandon proclaims a resolute refusal ‘ to accept or 
respect “ petty categories ” formulated by zealots/ 
Why, in our old Puritan New England of fifty years 
ago, a member would have been promptly ‘ read out ’ 
of his church for such a declaration! I like that 
expression, ‘ categories/ ” grinned the Professor, 
displaying a row of porcelain teeth like piano keys. 
“ It covers such a multitude of dogmatic supersti- 
tions. Last but not least of all, let me quote in con- 
clusion this splendid sentence : ‘ Mankind, stricken, 

distracted and undone, finds in the birth at Bethle- 
hem the re-birth of Humanity/ There you see that 
he has boldly sucked the orange dry (if I may use a 
homely American expression), and he throws away 
the peeling. By all means, have what little Lares 
and Penates you like, in the seclusion of your own 
personal preferences, but let us all unite in that one 
living object of worship, Humanity! This is in- 
deed ‘ the Religion of the Future/ What says 
Charles Eliot, President Emeritus of Harvard, de- 
fining it? ‘ The prevailing Christian conceptions of 
heaven and hell have hardly any more influence with 


THE THOUGHT 


119 

educated people in these days than Olympus and 
Hades have, but/ he concludes, ‘ finally, this twen- 
tieth century religion is not only to be in harmony 
with the great secular movements of modern so- 
ciety . . . but also in essential agreement with the 
direct, personal teachings of Jesus, as they are re- 
ported in the gospels. The revelation he gave to 
mankind thus becomes more wonderful than ever/ 
My dear friend, that last paragraph sounds as 
though Canon Brandon himself had written it. 
What is this Religion of the Future but Christianity 
rid of the creeds, those * petty categories of zealots ’ ? 
Such words as these give forth no uncertain sound, 
and they ring the death-knell of what we call 
Church- ianity.” 

The Professor was entirely contented and happy 
and, when a motor was announced which was to 
take him and Canon Harding and the young Boston 
doctor to Barchester to catch the London express 
train, he said to Sir Christopher: 

“ I see great promise for the future, and I feel 
that by such talks as this, in quiet social gatherings, 
the good seed is most surely sown. Even in the 
minds of those who fancy they reject cur new re- 
ligion, it must germinate and take root, if they pos- 
sess culture and education. I shall be glad to hear 
about your nephew, my dear Sir Christopher. Let 
us hope that he has been impressed to-day. I my- 
self feel quite sure of it.” 


120 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


Sir Christopher scowled. “ I can’t say that I 
noticed it,” he answered briefly. 

“ Well, well, we must hope for the best,” re- 
joined the optimistic Professor. “We must get 
upon a high plane of thought and keep there. We 
must consider the good of all Mankind and care less 
and less for the individual. Reason tells us what is 
best, my dear Sir Christopher, and she destroys 
surely both superstition and sentimentalism ! ” 

The Professor took his departure. After all the 
guests were gone, Sir Christopher, lost in dark 
thoughts, sat smoking in a high-backed leather chair 
at the end of the picture-gallery. Harry found him 
there five minutes later, upon coming in from the 
library, where he had been looking over the after- 
noon mail. 

“Well,” said Sir Christopher, staring hard at 
Harry, “ what do you think of it all? ” 

“ Think of what? ” asked Harry, whose mind had 
been distracted from all other subjects by a letter 
from Melanie, written in Paris the day before. 

“ I mean, of course, what do you think of the 
questions discussed by the Professor to-day? 
Didn’t they set you thinking? Do they make no 
impression on you ? ” Sir Christopher spoke more 
impatiently than the occasion seemed to warrant. 

“ Poor old Professor Wilson,” said Harry, whose 
good-humour had returned. “ How he does try to 
turn everything topsy-turvy. He is blinder than a 


THE THOUGHT 


121 


bat. I don’t suppose he really means to do any 
harm, but such talk as his, taken seriously, might 
stir up fools or fanatics to any sort of crime. I 
don’t suppose that serene old man dreams for a 
moment of the evil passions which he might kindle 
in men of a different stamp from himself.” 

Sir Christopher’s face had grown darker while 
Harry spoke. He got up from his chair, threw 
away a half-smoked cigar, and facing Harry he said 
bitterly : “ What you orthodox people call 4 topsy- 

turvy ’ we consider to be the right side up.” 

Harry laughed. “ Surely, Uncle Christopher,” 
he said, “ you don’t mean to endorse what the Pro- 
fessor said about the parable of the Pharisee and 
the Publican ? ” 

Sir Christopher lost his temper, to Harry’s sur- 
prise, and strode up and down the room in a fury. 

“ Damn all publicans, say I ! ” he cried. “ Snivel- 
ling cowards ! The Pharisee was a gentleman. 
People are all coming to their senses outside of your 
slavish Church, that cowers before a tyrant God of 
its own creation ! ” 

Never before had Sir Christopher spoken thus in 
Harry’s presence. It seemed like an intended in- 
sult, and it cut like the lash of a whip. Harry was 
white to the lips and his dark eyes blazed. He 
drew a long breath that hissed through his clenched 
teeth, and walking to the open window looked out, 
and said never a word. 


122 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


Sir Christopher glanced at him, and an expression 
of contempt twisted his yellow moustache. “ You 
may not like to hear the truth,” he pursued, “ but 
the educated and enlightened world is rising up to- 
day in a united protest against your Church of 
Rome, and this great Forward Movement is bound 
to set the whole world free. Think it over seriously, 
Harry, and see if you can’t come to your senses.” 

Before Harry, who had recovered his self-control, 
could say anything in answer, a discreet voice broke 
the silence. A footman stood in the doorway. 

“If you please, Sir Christopher, the motor is 
ready, sir.” 

Sir Christopher turned to Harry. “ I did not 
mean to say anything to offend you,” he said with 
an effort, as they went downstairs, “ but your future 
is in your own hands, and the responsibility of bring- 
ing back the family name and traditions to what 
they were and what they ought to be. My father 
never protested, as he might have done, against hav- 
ing a Papist daughter-in-law thrust upon him, be- 
cause he expected that I should have sons to come 
after me. Little did he dream that the family he 
was proud of, and the wealth that he had amassed to 
make it more brilliant and powerful, would end in 
Romanists and Romanism. I tell you; think it 
over, for it behooves you to take warning ! ” 

Harry was so taken aback by this outbreak that 


THE THOUGHT 123 

he could only say, “ Good night, Uncle Christo- 
pher.” 

Sir Christopher growled in answer, got into the 
motor and was whirled away. He certainly was 
upset, and in a most unusual frame of mind. 
Harry’s religion and approaching marriage seemed 
fast becoming to him a personal grievance, and the 
founding of a wealthy family of Catholic Leightons, 
to carry on the name, began to appear to be a na- 
tional disgrace. He tried as he sat in the train, and 
when he snatched a hasty sandwich at a station, to 
calm himself, going back in his mind to the Profes- 
sor’s repeated assertion ; “ Reason tells us what is 

best.” 

He got home after ten o’clock. Constance and 
Lady Louisa had already gone to bed, knowing that 
Sir Christopher hated to be “ sat up for.” A hot 
supper awaited him, but it did not altogether mend 
his temper. 

Upstairs he dismissed his valet. “ I don’t want 
anything, Balters. Don’t call me before nine 
o’clock to-morrow. I need sleep.” 

“Yes, sir, good night, sir,” said Balters, and 
that faithful and devoted valet, to whom Sir Chris- 
topher was a hero, said to himself as he went off 
to bed, “ Sir Christopher looks worried and worn. 
I wonder what ails him ! ” 


CHAPTER XIII 


A FTER his uncle’s departure Harry Leighton 
sat smoking for an hour peacefully, and his 
good-nature asserted itself, for he was slow to anger 
and quick in recovery. 

“ Poor old Uncle Christopher ! ” he thought. 
“ He must be very uncomfortable.” 

After a solitary dinner Harry walked out into the 
garden, where through the blue darkness of the sky 
the stars glowed and thrilled, as though the music 
of the spheres were awakening them to life, to sing 
with the angels a “ Gloria in Excelsis.” 

“ The Heavens declare the glory of God!” 
Harry repeated to himself with emphasis, as a final 
protest against the Professor and the “ New Re- 
ligion.” When he went into the library an hour 
later, he picked up from the table a red-bound book. 

“ I must read another chapter of the memoirs that 
Melanie gave me on Tuesday before she left Lon- 
don,” Harry said to himself. “ It will take away 
the bitter taste of to-day’s talk.” 

While Harry reads I shall copy the chapter over 
his shoulder, for I think, as he did, that it is well 
worth reading. Melanie called these memoirs “ The 
124 


THE THOUGHT 


125 


Book of the Grandmothers,” and perhaps it explains 
why this descendant of theirs, Melanie de Vaudreuil, 
with all her fun and frisk, had, even as a little child, 
taken her religion so seriously, being, as she said, 
“ the only thing worth the trouble to be serious 
about. ,, This is what Harry read (the book was 
“ The Memoirs of Madame de Lafayette ”) : 

(Story of the death of the Duchesse d’Ayen and the 
Marechale de Noailles, narrated by M. Carrichon, a priest 
of the Oratory.) 

Madame la Marechale de Noailles, Madame la 
Duchesse d’Ayen (her daughter-in-law), and Mme. 
la Vicomtesse de Noailles (her granddaughter), 
were kept prisoners in their hotel from the month 
of November, 1793, until April, 1794. The first of 
these ladies I knew only by sight, but the others I 
knew very well, having gone to see them about once 
a week during their detention. 

The “ Terror ” grew with the increase of blood- 
shed, and the victims became each day more numer- 
ous. One day when I was exhorting these ladies to 
be prepared for the worst, I said with a kind of pre- 
sentiment, “If you should go to the guillotine, God 
giving me the necessary strength, I will accompany 
you to the scaffold.” They at once took me at my 
word, exclaiming eagerly : “ Will you promise ? ” 

I hesitated a moment, and then I answered, “ Yes ; 
and in order that you may recognise me, I shall 
wear a dark-blue coat and a red waistcoat.” Dur- 


126 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


in g the ensuing week, they used often to remind me 
of this promise. 

In the month of April, Easter week, 1794, they 
were all three taken away from their hotel, and 
transferred to the Luxembourg prison. I received 
messages from them often, through Monsieur Grellet 
(the tutor of Alexis and Alfred de Noailles) who 
was able to render to them, as well as to the little 
boys, many devoted services. The ladies again fre- 
quently recalled to me my promise. 

One day, the 27th of June, they sent Monsieur 
Grellet to ask me to perform the same office for the 
Marechal de Mouchy and his wife (the father and 
mother of the Vicomte de Noailles). I set off at 
once to the Palais de Justice, and succeeded in enter- 
ing the courtyard. For a quarter of an hour I stood 
quite near to Monsieur and Mme. de Mouchy, 
whom I had met once and knew by sight better than 
they knew me, for they failed to recognise me. 
With prayer and by the grace of God, I did what I 
could for them. The Marechal was singularly edi- 
fying, praying aloud with all his heart. He had 
said, the night before, on leaving the prison of the 
Luxembourg : “ At seventeen I mounted an assault 

for my king; at seventy-seven I mount the scaffold 
for my God. My friends, I am not unhappy.” 

I omit the details. On that day I did not feel 
strong enough to go all the way to the guillotine, 
and, besides, it was unnecessary. 


THE THOUGHT 


127 


On the 22nd of July (4 Thermidor) 1794, a 
Tuesday, I had been at home between eight and ten 
o’clock in the morning, and was just getting ready 
to go out, when there came a knock at the door. 
Upon opening it I found the Noailles boys and their 
tutor. The children, with the gaiety natural to their 
age, did not show any signs of grief over their re- 
cent bereavement in the death of their grandparents, 
nor any apprehension as to future sorrow ; the tutor, 
however, was agitated and had a haggard look of 
horror on his face. “ Let us go into your study,” 
he said, “ and leave the children in the outer room.” 
We entered, and he threw himself into an armchair. 
“ It is all over, my friend,” he said. “ The ladies 
are summoned before the Revolutionary tribunal. I 
come to ask the fulfilment of your promise. I am 
going to take the boys to Vincennes to see their little 
sister Euphemie. There, in the forest, I shall pre- 
pare the unfortunate children for their terrible loss.” 

Forewarned though I had been for so long a time, 
this announcement gave me a shock that stunned 
me. I thought of the frightful situation of these 
ladies, of the children and their worthy tutor, of 
this whole family that had once been so gay, of the 
little Euphemie, but four years old — all this pic- 
ture was painted on my bewildered imagination. 
When I came to myself I asked a few questions, 
and then I said : “ Go now, and I will prepare my- 

self for the ordeal. What a horrible task lies be- 


128 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


fore me! Pray to God that He may give me the 
strength to accomplish it.” 

We found the little boys playing in the next room, 
gay and innocent, entirely unmindful of the impend- 
ing catastrophe. The sight of them and the 
thought of what was coming to them and to their 
little sister made my heart bleed, and when I was 
left alone I felt completely exhausted; and I prayed 
to the Lord, saying, “ Oh, my God, have pity on 
them; on them and on me! ” 

I changed my clothes and went ou^to do some 
errands with a heavy weight of sorrow at my heart. 
Between one and two o’clock I went to the Palais de 
Justice and was refused admittance. Still hoping 
that the announcement might have been a mistake, 
I asked some questions of a man who was coming 
out of the tribunal. His answers settled all doubts 
in my mind. I set off to do some other errands, 
which took me to the Faubourg Saint Antoine. 
Horror and anguish had given me a splitting head- 
ache. I stopped to see a sure friend to whom I 
could tell everything safely. He besought me to 
take heart for God’s sake, and gave me some coffee 
for my aching head. 

I went back with slow steps to the Palais, irreso- 
lute, almost wishing not to get there, or else not to 
find those who had summoned me. Before five 
o’clock I arrived; and observing nothing that an- 
nounced a speedy departure, I went sadly upstairs 


THE THOUGHT 


129 


to the Sainte Chapelle, and strolled aimlessly about 
in the neighbouring halls. I felt nervous and rest- 
less; sitting down and getting up again, and speak- 
ing to no one. I tried my best to hide the gnawing 
pain in my soul under a mask of serenity. 

From time to time I glanced down into the court- 
yard, striving to detect any sign of an approaching 
departure. The one haunting thought in my mind 
was always this : “ In two hours — in one hour — 

they will have ceased to live.” I cannot express in 
words how this same thought has affected me all my 
life long, on the many occasions when it has re- 
curred to me in the face of impending death. The 
next hour of waiting seemed to me both the longest 
and the shortest hour of my life, according to the 
conflicting thoughts that struggled within my mind ; 
the illusions of a vain hope, and the terrors of a 
sure reality. 

At last I beheld a stir in the courtyard, which 
made me conclude that the prison doors were about 
to be opened. I went below at once, placing myself 
near to the closed outer gate, as it had been impos- 
sible for the past two weeks to penetrate into the 
courtyard itself. The first cart I saw, was filled 
with victims and was advancing toward me. There 
were eight ladies in it. Seven of them were stran- 
gers to me, the eighth was the Marechale de Noail- 
les. Seeing that her daughter and granddaughter 
were not with her, for one instant a ray of hope 


130 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


flashed into my heart; but alas! I saw them a mo- 
ment later mounting into the second cart. The 
young Vicomtesse de Noailles was dressed all in 
white, which she had worn since the execution of 
her husband’s father and mother (the Marechal and 
Marechale de Mouchy). She looked younger than 
her age; twenty-four years old! 

Her mother, Madame d’Ayen, who appeared to 
be not over forty, was clad in a morning gown made 
of striped blue-and-white muslin. I noticed all this 
from where I stood, at the gate, rather far away 
from them. Six men were placed in the cart be- 
side them, and I noticed that two of these men tried 
to give the ladies as much room as possible. This 
respectful consideration touched me. As soon as 
they were all seated, the daughter spoke quickly and 
tenderly to her mother. 

“ Look at that young one, how she turns round, 
and how she talks to the other! ” jeered a bystander. 
It seemed to me as though I could hear what she was 
saying, for I knew what it must be. “ Mamma, he 
is not here,” “Look again!” “Nothing escapes 
me, and I assure you, Mamma, he is not here ! ” 
They forgot that I had told them that I should 
probably not be allowed to enter the courtyard. 

The first cart stopped near to me for a full quar- 
ter of an hour. Then it went on and the second 
one advanced. I shouldered my way through the 


THE THOUGHT 


I 3 I 

rabble, and got as near to them as I could ; but still 
the ladies did not see me. 

Re-entering the Palais, I walked through it, and 
by a roundabout way I reached the Pont-au-Change, 
and placed myself at the entrance. Madame de 
Noailles passed by and looked about on every side, 
but without perceiving me. I then followed the 
cart along the bridge, separated from them by the 
crowd, but not far away. 

Madame de Noailles continued to look for me, gaz- 
ing in every direction, but still without descrying me. 
I saw anxiety on the face of Madame d’Ayen, as 
her daughter’s eyes renewed their fruitless search. 
I was on the point of giving it all up. “ I have done 
what I can,” I said to myself. “ The crowd will 
only grow denser and I can do nothing more. I had 
better go home.” 

I was about to act upon this decision, when sud- 
denly the sky grew dark, the thunder growled, and 
I resolved upon another effort. Passing through 
several by-streets, I came out (before the carts had 
arrived there) upon the rue Saint Antoine almost 
opposite the too famous prison of La Force. Now, 
indeed, the wind shrieked and raged and the storm 
burst with redoubled fury, while lightning and 
thunder alternated in sharp and swift succession. 
I took refuge in the doorway of a shop, which, to 
this day, I look at with affectionate gratitude. 


1 32 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


In another moment the street was swept clean and 
not a soul was to be seen except within the shops, 
at the doors, or at the windows. The march of the 
procession became disorderly. The mounted guard 
and those on foot broke step, and the carts also 
were urged along faster. When they reached the 
Petit Saint-Antoine I was still undecided what to 
do, and the first cart went past me. 

Then with a swift, almost unconscious, impulse 
I left the shop and overtaking the second cart I 
found myself in the street, all alone, and quite near 
to the two ladies! Madame de Noailles espied me 
at once, and smiling she seemed to say : “ There 

you are at last ! Ah, how happy we are ! We have 
sought you everywhere. Mamma, there he is ! ” 

Madame d’Ayen seemed to revive at these words. 
All my irresolution vanished, and by the grace of 
God I felt strong with an extraordinary courage, 
as, drenched by sweat and rain, I marched along 
the street beside them. On the steps of the Church 
of Saint Louis I descried a friend who, filled with 
respect and pity for the victims, seemed anxious to 
render the same last service of religion. I could see 
this in his attitude and in his face, and clapping him 
on the shoulder as he passed, I cried with a thrill of 
joy, “Bon soir, mon ami!” 

The storm had now reached its climax, and the 
wind grew more tempestuous. The ladies in the 
first cart were much troubled by it, especially the 


THE THOUGHT 


133 


Marechale de Noailles. Her big cap was blown 
backward, uncovering her thin grey hair. She 
reeled on the hard plank seat, without a back, her 
hands being tied behind her. At this moment a 
crowd of people who were standing at the corner of 
the street in spite of the inundation, recognised her, 
and they yelled their insults which added to her tor- 
ment, but which she bore with meek patience. 

“ There she goes, that Marechale who used to 
hold her head so high, driving in her fine carriages ! 
There she goes in a cart, just like the rest of us 
common people ! ” 

The jeers continued, the sky grew blacker, and the 
rain came down in torrents as we reached the square 
at the crossways in front of the Faubourg Saint- 
Antoine. Looking ahead, I said to myself: 
“ This will be the best place for them to receive what 
they so ardently desire.” 

The cart was going more slowly as I turned to- 
ward the ladies, making a sign to Mme. de Noailles 
which she understood perfectly. “ Mamma, Mon- 
sieur Carrichon is going to give us the absolution.” 
At once they bowed their heads with a look of re- 
pentance, contrition, love and hope. Raising my 
hand, and with covered head, I pronounced the for- 
mula of absolution, and the sentences that follow it, 
very distinctly and with a supernatural calm. They 
united themselves with heart and soul to the prayer. 
Never shall I forget this transcendent scene ! 


i 3 4 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


From that moment the storm was lulled, the rain 
almost ceased, and the whole tempest seemed as 
though it had been evoked solely for the fulfilment 
of our wishes. I blessed God for it, and so did 
they; for their whole outward bearing now became 
serene and even joyful. 

As the carts advanced farther into the faubourg, 
the eager crowd again thronged the pavement on 
both sides, jeering and hooting at the first load, es- 
pecially at the Marechale, but taking no notice of 
the second. The rain now ceased altogether ; some- 
times I walked ahead and sometimes fell behind. 

At last we reached the end of our journey, and 
the victims were made ready for the sacrifice. 
What I felt is indescribable at this awful moment. 
I pictured to myself the grief of the children, the 
husbands, the sisters, nieces, relations and friends 
who were to survive them in this vale of tears! I 
was looking upon them now, full of life, health and 
vigour, and in another moment I should see them no 
more. The one great consolation was, to behold 
them so resigned. 

We reached the scaffold, and the carts stopped. 
The guards instantly surrounded them, and outside 
was a wider circle of spectators, most of them laugh- 
ing and jesting at the horrible tragedy. What a 
situation for me, standing in the midst of this 
hideous crowd ! While the executioner and his two 
underlings were helping the ladies to get down from 


THE THOUGHT 


135 


the first cart, I saw that the young Vicomtesse de 
Noailles was looking about for me. She descried 
me, and raised her eyes to Heaven; then lowered 
them. This wonderful, speaking glance, bright, 
tender, and gentle, which she directed toward me, 
might have drawn attention to me had the crowd 
not been otherwise occupied. I pulled my hat down 
more closely over my brow, but continued to gaze 
at her. I understood perfectly what she would have 
said to me : 

“ Our sacrifice is finished ! How many dear ones 
we leave behind us ! But the merciful God calls us, 
and we have a sure faith and hope. We shall not 
forget them. Take our last farewell to them, and 
our thanks for yourself. Jesus Christ who died for 
us is our strength. May we die in Him. Farewell ! 
May we all meet again in Heaven ! ” 

No spoken language could have been more elo- 
quent or touching than this mute message, which 
caused my neighbours to mock at her, saying : “ Ah ! 
Look at that young woman, how contented she 
seems, and how she casts her eyes up at the sky and 
prays ! Much good it will do her ! ” And then 
came a muttered curse: “Ah, les scelerats! les 
calotins! ” 

The last farewell was exchanged between them, 
and they alighted. I had no strength left, and I 
thanked God that I had not waited until this mo- 
ment to try to give them absolution or until they 


136 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

had mounted the scaffold. We should not have 
been able then so completely to unite ourselves with 
God, to ask and receive this crowning grace, as we 
had been in that one quiet moment upon the road. 

While the others were alighting I left my place 
and crossing over to the other side, stopped opposite 
to the wooden staircase that led up to the scaffold. 
An old man with white hair, tall, stout and kindly- 
looking, was leaning against it. Some one said that 
he was the Fermier-General. Next to him stood a 
lady whom I did not know. After her came the 
Marechale de Noailles. She stood facing me. She 
was dressed in black taffeta silk, not having left off 
her mourning for the Marechal. She seated her- 
self upon a block of wood or stone ; her large eyes 
looked dazed. All the other victims were ranged in 
two rows on the side facing the Faubourg Saint- An- 
toine. I looked for the other two ladies, at first 
seeing only the mother in an attitude of devotion; 
simple, noble, resigned, her mind fixed upon the 
sacrifice which she was about to make to God, 
through the merits of the Saviour, His divine Son. 
She seemed absolutely without fear. In a word, 
she looked exactly as I used often to see her when 
she had the happiness to receive the Holy Com- 
munion. This is for me a picture never to be ef- 
faced from my memory. I often see her still, in 
that same attitude. God grant that I may profit 
by it! 


THE THOUGHT 


137 


The Marechale de Noailles was the third of the 
victims to mount upon the scaffold. The upper 
part of her dress had to be cut away in order to bare 
her neck. I was longing to get away, but I felt 
that I must drink the bitter cup even to the dregs, 
and must keep my promise, since God was giving 
me the strength of self-control, in the midst of all 
these horrors. . . . Six ladies came after the 
Marechale. 

Madame d’Ayen was the tenth victim. She 
seemed very glad to die before her daughter. The 
chief executioner snatched off her cap and as it was 
fastened by a pin which he had not taken out, her 
hair was rudely jerked, and a quick spasm of pain 
crossed her face. The mother disappeared; the 
daughter’s turn came next. What a picture was 
this! A lady, young, and dressed all in white, ap- 
pearing even younger than she really was, like a 
little lamb led to the slaughter! I seemed to be 
looking on at one of the martyrdoms of young vir- 
gins or of holy women. What had happened to 
her mother also happened to her; the same jerk of 
the hair when the cap was torn off, and the pin 
forgotten; the same quick, passing spasm of pain, 
then the same calm ; and death. What a stream of 
bright red blood spouted from the head and neck! 
“ Now she is happy ! ” I cried to myself, as her body 
was tossed aside on the hideous heap of corpses. 

May an omnipotent and merciful God pour out 


138 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


upon their family all the blessings which I pray also 
for my dear ones ! May we all be saved, with those 
souls that have gone before us to that bourne where 
there can be no revolution; to that country which, 
as Saint Augustine says, shall have Truth for its 
King, Charity for its Law, and Eternity for its 
Reign ! 


CHAPTER XIV 


B ALTERS, the faithful valet, was right about 
Sir Christopher. Something certainly did 
“ ail him.” He looked dull and haggard the next 
morning, having slept ill and been haunted by bad 
dreams, alternating with dreary intervals of wake- 
fulness. His heart throbbed hard while he lay in 
the dark, vainly trying to bring some order out of 
the chaos of his thoughts. The Professor and the 
New Religion sat heavy on him. The old founda- 
tions of his life seemed to be slipping away. When 
the Professor painted the future with the large 
sweeping brush-strokes of an enlightened eloquence, 
the prospect became one brilliant dazzle of iridescent 
light. He depicted a golden age of perfect health 
and sufficient wealth, a regenerate world peopled 
by splendidly sound animals, transmitting untainted 
bodies to all future generations. This recreated 
earth would be a Paradise Regained, without the 
possible intrusion of either God or serpent: for 
where there exists no sin, there can be no fall. All 
the old false and even fantastic definitions of right 
and wrong shall be (the Professor asserted) thrust 
aside and forgotten. The Goddess Hygiene shall 
139 


i 4 o SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


preside over birth and marriage, obliterating disease 
and defying Death. To Sir Christopher’s mind 
this thought was a magnificent appeal to intelligence 
and reason — except for one question: as to the 
future woman. The heavy-handed and felonious 
suffragette, breaking windows and destroying prop- 
erty, and the female apostle of the “ New Morality,” 
alike disgusted him: for Sir Christopher was, first 
of all, a well-bred gentleman, and the best experi- 
ence of his whole life had been his intimate associa- 
tion with “ gentlewomen ” like his wife and his 
daughter. A simple old-fashioned “ home ” had 
been his, kept up for him after his wife’s death by 
Lady Louisa and Constance, and he loved this 
weaker sex for its very weakness, even when he 
looked down with intellectual superiority upon it. 
Sir Christopher could not see how the only kind of 
woman he could tolerate would be perpetuated in the 
Professor’s earthly paradise. How could an “ in- 
terior ” exist, to shelter mother and child, how could 
any home be built, based upon the shifting whims 
of free love and the unhindered vagaries of a 
casual motherhood ? 

The optimist Professor himself had no misgiv- 
ings as to the future. In all really good things, he 
asserted, the new religion would transcend all the 
old superstitions; satisfying every craving of a 
healthy human nature. 

“ At any rate, we must begin by clearing away ! ” 


THE THOUGHT 


141 

he always insisted, and Sir Christopher began to act 
upon the Professor’s method. 

Faith takes hold of whatever is good in the 
human race and fosters humility. Denial seizes 
upon all that is bad, inflaming mankind with the 
pride of Lucifer. Sir Christopher, under the active 
domination of Denial, began to lose and forget all 
the inbred good instincts which had come down to 
him, and all the precepts of right and wrong (based 
upon faith in God) which he had hitherto quite un- 
consciously followed. With an unbiased mind he 
now started fresh (impelled by the learned Profes- 
sor’s genial urging) to strike out for himself a path 
of his own choosing along the new and dangerous 
crevasses of private judgment, guided by that ruth- 
less presiding genius of modern philanthropy, “ Hu- 
manitarianism ” : whose precepts are completely up- 
side down, like a witch praying backwards! 

“ What is wrong with you, Papa ? ” asked Con- 
stance the next morning, as they walked out after 
breakfast into a mellow sunshine that seemed too 
warm to last. Beyond the violet line of distant 
hills, a heavy bank of soft wet cloud was slowly 
rising, and the same fitful wind that shook a few 
already dry leaves from the vine-clad pergola tossed 
into the blue sky little fleecy scraps of grey mist, 
torn from its solid edge. But the morning sun still 
shone bright in the east, and bickering birds flut- 
tered and chirped about the stone bench where Con- 


142 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


stance threw crumbs from a little basket of bread 
taken from the breakfast-table. 

“ Don’t go too near, Papa, please ! ” she cried ; 
“ you’ll frighten my birds away ! What is wrong 
with you to-day ? ” she repeated. 

“ Nothing is wrong ” replied her father, “ but I 
have had a horrid headache all night long. I sup- 
pose from the journey and getting home so late.” 

As he spoke, Sir Christopher scowled at the 
western sky. 

“ It is beastly hot,” he said, “ and I think it is 
going to rain. Confound those sparrows! What 
are you feeding them for ? They ought to be shot ; 
they’ve no right to live, — I must have them all de- 
stroyed.” 

Constance’s small face was puckered, and tears 
came into her soft blue eyes. 

“ You don’t mean it! ” she cried, getting in front 
of her father as he turned away, and waving an 
empty basket. She looked like a very small matador 
trying to head off a sullen bull. 

“ Dear Papa, you promised me last year that you 
never would do it again ! I love them. They can’t 
help being ugly and quarrelsome ; they are born so ; 
and they are just as hungry as if they were pea- 
cocks or nightingales ! ” 

The sight of the little “ Tanagra figurine,” with 
fluttering white draperies, dancing backward in his 
path softened Sir Christopher’s mood. Constance 


THE THOUGHT 


M3 


had always been tender-hearted like that, hating to 
have anything killed or hurt. She used to pick up 
every snail or worm in the path and put it “ in a safe 
place.” Sir Christopher thought this softhearted- 
ness all very well for a girl or a woman : but when 
his little brother Gerald had shown signs of it years 
ago, the heavy-booted small boy Christopher had 
thrust both hands deep into his trousers-pockets and 
had stamped and trodden upon everything in sight: 
snail, beetle, ant or worm, just to tease him. Such 
nasty things were better “ out of the way,” he said. 
But Constance was a girl ; not a milk-sop boy. 

So he said : “ All right, Conny, your pests shall 

oe spared, but I’ll get out of earshot.” And turn- 
ing aside. Sir Christopher followed a narrow path 
that led past a huge cedar of Lebanon, and out into 
the park beyond. Here king ferns grew under the 
shadowy oak-trees, and autumn wild flowers 
bloomed quietly in mauve and purple; half mourn- 
ing for the dead and gone summer. Sir Christo- 
pher had come out without a cane, and was reading 
(as he strolled along) some letters and pamphlets 
which had come by the morning’s mail, and which 
he had stuffed into a large pocket of his loose jacket. 
There was an old bench near the path under a wide- 
spreading walnut-tree, and on the back of it sat a 
very smooth and small grey squirrel, holding some- 
thing in its paws. It scuttled away and up the 
rough grey trunk as Sir Christopher threw himself 


i 4 4 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


heavily on the bench. From a high branch the 
squirrel gazed down at him alertly with two eyes 
like shoe-buttons. But he took no notice of the 
“ small thing God hath made ” ; for his mind was 
intent upon a neat little pamphlet. Sir Christo- 
pher’s brain seemed to twist into hard knots, tied by 
the tortuous things he read, which coiled like snakes 
about his very soul. The world where he had lived 
and moved so long, and taken so many things for 
granted, seemed to reel like an unstable dream; for 
this “ Religion of the Future,” with a devilish 
alchemy, turns into idle dust and crumbling sand 
every golden truth upon which Christian civilization 
has been built, and by which the lives of men for 
centuries have been uplifted. 

The “ Religion of the Future,” as revealed by 
Charles Eliot, begins by declaring that there is no 
Jehovah ; no Heavenly Father. “ The nineteenth 
century,” its author says, “ has made all these con- 
ceptions of deity look archaic and crude.” Sir 
Christopher took his pipe from his mouth and blew 
a cloud of smoke as he ruminated upon this awful 
statement. The little squirrel on the bough above 
sneezed, and climbed higher toward Heaven, won- 
dering why that enormous giant was muddling the 
air with bad smells. The “ Titanesque atom man,” 
however, continued to smoke and read, and, as he 
read, a hypnotic spell seemed gradually to be cast 


THE THOUGHT 


145 


over him. The absolutely superior mind that has 
evolved this “ New Religion ” is so plausible, and 
(as Sydney Smith said of proverbs) “ so cocksure 
of being right,” that its insidious spirit began to 
enter into the brain and will of Sir Christopher; 
urging him to abandon even the vaguest of time- 
honoured notions concerning Divine authority or 
human responsibility to God. 

“ It is evident that the authority both of the most 
authoritative churches and of the Bible, as a ver- 
bally inspired guide, is already greatly impaired, 
and the tendency towards liberty is progressive, and, 
among educated men, irresistible.” 

“ Liberty ! ” mused Sir Christopher. “ That 
means the freedom of the individual to judge what 
is right and what is wrong, unhampered by any old 
and false standards.” Two pages further on, he 
dwelt upon the following sentences concerning the 
“ New Religion ” ; reading them twice over : 
“ When its disciple encounters a wrong or evil in 
the world, his impulse will be to search out its ori- 
gin, source or cause, that he may attack it at its 
starting-point. He may not speculate on the origin 
of evil in general, but will surely try to discover the 
best way to eradicate the particular evil or wrong he 
has recognized.” 

Sir Christopher stopped, shook the ashes from his 
pipe, put it in his pocket, and read on intently; his 


146 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


face growing tense, his breath quick, and winking 
his big grey eyes with a nervous twitch. The “ Re- 
ligion of the Future ” was really taking hold of 
him; driving out the last vestige of “ old supersti- 
tion. He seemed pleased when he read : “ In the 

future religion there will be nothing supernatural.” 
And he smiled too at the statement : “ A pagan- 

ized Hebrew-Christianity has unquestionably made 
much of personal sacrifice as a religious duty. The 
new religion will greatly qualify the supposed duty 
of sacrifice, and will regard all sacrifices as unneces- 
sary or injurious, except those which love dictates 
and justifies. ,, “ It is obvious, therefore, that the 
completely natural quality of the future religion ex- 
cludes from it many of the religious compensations 
and consolations of the past. Twentieth century 
soldiers, going into battle will not be able to say to 
each other, as Moslem soldiers did in the tenth cen- 
tury, ‘If we are killed to-day, we shall meet 
again to-night in Paradise/ Even now, the mother 
who loses her babe, or the husband his wife, by a 
preventable disease, is seldom able to say simply, ‘ It 
is the will of God! The babe — or the woman — 
is better off in heaven than on earth. I resign this 
dear object of love and devotion, who has gone to 
a better world/ The ordinary consolations of in- 
stitutional Christianity no longer satisfy intelligent 
people whose lives have been broken by the sickness 
or premature death of those they love. The new 


THE THOUGHT 


147 


religion will not attempt to reconcile men and women 
to present ills by promises of future blessedness, 
either for themselves or for others.” 

Sir Christopher shut his eyes and leaned his head 
back against the trunk of the old walnut-tree. 
After a minute he shook himself, and taking up the 
little pamphlet once more he read on to the end, 
pausing over such assertions as these : “ The new 

religion affords an indefinite scope, or range, for 
progress and development. It rejects all the limi- 
tations of family, tribal, or national religion. It is 
not bound to any dogma, creed, book or institution/’ 
Sir Christopher’s smile widened as he nodded assent 
to the fact of, “ the abandonment of churches alto- 
gether by a large proportion of the population in 
countries mainly Protestant.” And he laughed 
aloud as he read that : “ The modern man would 

hardly feel any appreciable loss of motive power 
towards good or away from evil if heaven were 
burnt, and hell quenched.” 

Sir Christopher arose and walked home, half an 
hour later, a much more dangerous man than when 
he came out ; and the grey squirrel, who was a she- 
squirrel and a mother, praised God and went back 
to her nest and her little ones, wondering what the 
superior being had been about. 

Many guests arrived that afternoon for a week’s 
shooting and the dinner was very gay; Sir Chris- 
topher being at his best, entirely free from headache 


148 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


or worry. When he said good night to Constance, 
he announced to her : 

“ I have written to Harry that Til go next week, 
on Monday, to Ravenshurst for ten days, to help him 
straighten out his affairs. He is all alone, poor fel- 
low, and everything should be in order before he 
goes to France. His wedding is to be in Paris on 
the twentieth of October, you know : only six weeks 
from now.” 

“ It is so kind of you, Papa, to help Harry, who 
has never seemed very fond of you, has he?” said 
Constance. “Of course I could not go to his wed- 
ding, as it is only ten days before my own. But 
aren’t you going, Papa dear ? It would seem 
strange if you don’t, and old Lady Bolton would be 
mortally offended.” 

A curious look came into Sir Christopher’s eyes. 

“ I should hate to offend dear Lady Bolton,” he 
said, slowly, “ but I don’t think I shall go to Harry 
Leighton’s wedding. Good night, my dear.” 


PART II 
THE DEED 


CHAPTER XV 

O N Monday of the following week Sir Christo- 
pher arrived at Ravenshurst, and the next six 
days were spent in riding all over the estate, looking 
at fields and visiting farms. Sir Christopher was 
keen and business-like in his suggestions. Accord- 
ing to him, his brother Gerald had been a very lax 
and easy-going landlord, much under the influence 
of a misplaced pity for some of his tenants. 

“ Mixing charity with business, I call it,” said Sir 
Christopher, “ which is a very mistaken generosity.” 

Harry had to acknowledge that his father had 
often succoured the undeserving, who were more 
voracious than needy ; but now that Gerald Leighton 
was dead, Harry felt somehow that he loved his 
father all the more for the habit of giving to what 
he called “ the devil's poor.” It really sometimes 
had been a rescue work, which still lived and bore 
fruit after his own eyes were closed and his hands 
powerless. Harry felt strongly with regard to his 
149 


150 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


father, the truth of those words : “ All that a man 
can hold in his dead right hand is what he has given 
away.” Gerald Leighton’s dead hands were filled 
full of the gifts that he had bestowed on others, 
and the blessings of the poor followed him. 

Lady Bolton had called Sir Christopher “ a cat ” ; 
but the feline streak in him belonged (as I said 
before) to the very largest and fiercest carnivora; 
it was rather a tiger or a panther streak. He was 
usually, in his everyday life, an easy-going country 
squire, of the kind which is called “ good-hearted 
for, aside from a keen business sense which made 
him a strict landlord, he was in no way penurious, 
paying high wages for service of every kind, and 
idolized by his over-fed and under-worked servants, 
— most especially by the worthy Balters, his valet. 
When not “ rubbed the wrong way ” (and Sir Chris- 
topher was not in a position to have such liberties 
taken with him with impunity), he was like a huge 
tiger lying replete in the sunshine ; and since he had 
retired from public functions, Sir Christopher’s life 
was one long basking. He stayed very little in 
town, and had congenial friends coming to visit him 
continually in the country. Aside from his love 
for the small Constance, his absorbing grand pas- 
sion had always been shooting, — one might even 
say “ killing,” — for his face glowed with a fierce 
pleasure as he skilfully finished his victims. See- 
ing life would have meant for Sir Christopher see- 


THE DEED 


in g death , could he have had the career of active 
service in the army that he had longed for as a boy, 
but had been prevented from following because he 
was the first-born son, and the heir to a great for- 
tune. He envied Gerald for being the younger 
son ; but Gerald had no taste for the army, and re- 
fused to accept a commission. Gerald had indeed 
been a “ weakling ” ! 

Sir Christopher had, as we see, led what might 
be called a “ blameless life ” until past fifty years 
old — the life of a country gentleman. The tiger 
streak in his nature wreaked its thirst for blood es- 
pecially in the autumn months, when he went to 
Scotland to kill stags, which he accomplished with 
much joy and cunning. He loved stalking at night, 
and it seemed almost as if he could see in the dark 
with phosphorescent eyes. 

Into this placid and uneventful life had come the 
genial Professor, apostle of the forward movement, 
and his honeyed words had turned to gall and bit- 
terness the mind and heart of Sir Christopher 
Leighton, whose hatred of “ Romanism,” and con- 
tempt for religion as being only cant and hypocrisy, 
— a feeling which had been always at the back of 
his mind — had now sprung alive into the fore- 
ground, bitter and dangerous. It had made him 
espouse with enthusiasm this “ Religion of the 
Future,” which gives to man the right to judge and 
decide for himself what is good and what is evil, 


152 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


and to snatch into his own audacious hands the aw- 
ful prerogatives of Divinity. 

Harry saw plainly during the two first days of his 
visit that while his uncle treated him with a certain 
“ bonhomie,” there lurked beneath it a perceptible 
malevolence, as though an evil spirit peered from be- 
hind his eyes even while his mouth was smiling. 
Harry was only half conscious of this uncanny im- 
pression, but it made him observe Sir Christopher 
more closely, and he came to the conclusion that his 
uncle was queer and must be ill; certainly that he 
was “ not himself.” Especially did Sir Christopher 
always, at meal times, or while they were riding 
about from one farm to another, hark back to his 
aggressive hostility to religion. It seemed really 
to have become an idee fixe. Harry kept his temper 
and wondered. 

And so the first week passed by, and the second 
week began, of Sir Christopher’s visit to Ravens- 
hurst. Things did not run any more smoothly; on 
the contrary, Harry had an odd feeling as though 
some unseen peril hovered about and was closing in 
around him. He could not account for this sensa- 
tion, and only imagined that his uncle’s continued 
peevishness was getting on his nerves. For Sir 
Christopher insisted upon perpetually rubbing into 
Harry’s mind that eternal “ Forward Movement ” 
which seemed to have taken hold of him body and 
soul. The most narrow and zealous fanatic in 


THE DEED 


153 


favour of religion could not have been more bigoted 
and dogmatic than was Sir Christopher in pulling it 
down. Harry bore it all, as a host must put up with 
a guest's peculiarities so long as he is a guest, and 
he was assisted in keeping his temper by the contin- 
ually recurring impression that there must be some- 
thing very wrong with his uncle’s mind and nerves. 

When Tuesday came, Harry began to wonder 
why Sir Christopher did not go home. The estate 
matters had been thoroughly gone over, and his 
uncle had said that he could stay only one week. 
But he still lingered at Ravenshurst, and a wary ex- 
pression had come into his eyes, the look he had 
when he was deer-stalking in Scotland. 

“ It is foolish of me to feel like this,” Harry said 
to himself on that Monday morning, “ but I de- 
cidedly wish that Uncle Christopher would go 
home.” 

They were seated after breakfast in the library. 
Sir Christopher had started upon his favourite 
theme again, and was exasperated at Harry’s con- 
tinued and imperturbable silence. He got up at last 
and shook himself. 

“ Let us go out into the open air,” he exclaimed, 
“ one stifles in this stuffy room ! ” 

Sir Christopher especially disliked the library at 
Ravenshurst, because over the fireplace there hung 
an almost speaking likeness of Pope Leo XIII; a 
marvellous drawing by Lenbach. This picture al- 


154 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


ways got on Sir Christopher’s nerves. The deep 
mysterious eyes seemed fixed upon him no matter 
where he sat, and the smiling mouth seemed to hold 
something besides benevolence in its curves; an ex- 
pression that suggested a lofty scorn of the mock- 
ing materialism of the “modernist” world. Sir 
Christopher called it “that Pope’s damned arro- 
gance.” 

Harry followed his uncle out into the garden, 
where they walked along a broad straight path that 
led to an old sundial with four stone benches sur- 
rounding it. A fat blackbird was performing a 
slow dance sideways back and forth upon the mossy 
face of the dial. The sky was blue, and white 
clouds, piled high, drifted across it, borne by a strong 
wind in the upper air, but below scarcely a leaf was 
stirring. The blackbird cocked his head curiously 
as Sir Christopher and Harry seated themselves, 
but he did not fly away. 

“At the risk of boring you, Harry,” said his 
uncle, drawing from his pocket a well-worn booklet, 
“ I will read to you a few paragraphs from this * Re- 
ligion of the Future,’ which I consider really well 
worth while thinking about. You know, my dear 
boy,” and Sir Christopher’s eyes belied the affection 
of his words, “ I am your only near relation, and 
much your senior, so that you ought to listen to me. 
And you are my successor to carry on the name of 
Leighton, and so I feel that I have the right to speak 


THE DEED 


155 

to you, and to try to change your ideas in some mat- 
ters/' 

“ All right, sir," said Harry, knowing what must 
be coming. 

Sir ‘Christopher cleared his throat and began, 
selecting different pages which he had previously 
marked in pencil along the margin. The blackbird 
listened attentively — the whole garden was still. 

“ * The decline of reliance upon absolute authority 
is one of the most significant phenomena of the 
modern world. ... To a human soul, lodged in 
an imperfect, feeble or suffering body, some of the 
older religions have held out the expectation of de- 
liverance by death, and of entrance upon a rich, 
competent and happy life. Can the future religion 
promise that sort of compensation for the ills of this 
world, any more than it can promise miraculous aid 
against threatened disaster ? A candid reply to 
this inquiry involves the statement that in the future 
religion there will he nothing supernatural. 

“ There goes cowardly superstition, Harry, all 
wiped out with one bold stroke ! And listen again : 
* The advent of a just freedom for the mass of man- 
kind has been delayed for centuries by just this 
effect of compensatory promises issued by the 
churches. Such promises have done infinite mis- 
chief in the world, by inducing men to be patient 
under sufferings and deprivations against which they 
should have incessantly struggled.’ 


156 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

“ There you have sound reason and common 
sense, Harry,” commented Sir Christopher, putting 
the booklet back into his pocket. “ I should like to 
hear what you have to say against it ? ” 

“ I have only one thing to say/’ responded Harry 
gravely, “ that such teaching as that takes all hope 
away from the human race, and plunges it into 
anarchy.” 

Sir Christopher scowled, and stamped heavily 
with the heel of his boot upon a wriggling earth- 
worm that had squirmed out of its hole to bask in 
the sunshine on the gravel, and the blackbird who 
had been eyeing the worm greedily for the last half 
hour from his perch on the sundial flew away dis- 
gusted ; for the blackbird was a “ pot hunter,” and 
could not comprehend Sir Christopher’s killing for 
sport. 

Harry broke the silence; he felt that he must 
speak at last. 

“ Don’t you see, my dear uncle,” he pursued, “ the 
awful danger of putting such theories into practice 
by any and every class of men, but particularly by 
the ignorant or the lawless? If rejection of all Di- 
vine authority be the beginning of such freedom as 
this, anarchy and chaos must surely be the end of it. 
A man can argue himself into almost any crime if he 
have neither the love nor the fear of God to control 
him, and if he goes so far as to deny God’s very 


THE DEED 


157 

existence, there is no boundary possible for his 
vagaries.” 

Sir Christopher got up impatiently. 

“ Every man should have a fair chance,” he de- 
clared, “ and if he does not choose to listen to 
reason, so much the worse for him ! ” 

He glared about him and slashed at the empty air 
with his stick as he walked back alone toward the 
house. Dark and heavy clouds had begun to drift 
across the sun, and far out to sea a dense fog lay 
like a winding-sheet of lead — Lord Soulis’s “ fu- 
neral pall.” Beyond the terrace-wall Harry could 
see foaming breakers leap and tumble as they 
splashed on the beach. 

“ I suppose I had better not have stirred up Uncle 
Christopher,” he thought, “ but if I say anything at 
all, I must tell the truth, even if it infuriates him. 
What can be the matter with him? These fits of 
rage seem lately to strike him from a clear sky. For 
a little while yesterday afternoon when we were rid- 
ing he seemed like a ball of sunshine, and he was 
bright and cheerful at dinner. He told me that I 
was richer than he had supposed, and patted me on 
the shoulder when he said good night. I fondly 
imagined he was getting all right again, and now 
to-day he is worse than ever. Balters is worried 
about him, I know. The poor fellow tells me that 
his master has seemed ‘ very queer, lately/ making a 


158 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

row about trifles which pass usually unnoticed. 
Tom Broadhurst came down for his holiday yes- 
terday. I think I’ll ask Tom to come to dinner to- 
night, and take a good look at my uncle/’ 

When Harry got back to the house, Sir Christo- 
pher was nowhere to be seen, nor did he appear 
again until the gong rang for luncheon. To 
Harry’s attempts to be civil he only replied in mono- 
syllables. 

“ Uncle Christopher,” said Harry at last, “ I hope 
you won’t mind having my friend Tom Broadhurst, 
who has just come down for a holiday, dine with 
us to-night? I had promised to have nobody here 
during your visit, but Tom does not count.” 

“ Is ‘Tom’ nobody?” asked his uncle, sniffing 
at a glass of old port before drinking it. “ I never 
heard of him.” 

“ Tom is my one best and intimate friend,” 
answered Harry, “ and he is getting to be very well 
known in his profession. He is a doctor.” 

Sir Christopher sniffed again and Harry went on : 

“We were inseparable playmates as boys during 
our school holidays, and we wrote to each other 
every week the rest of the year, for we went to dif- 
ferent schools. Tom is not a Catholic.” 

Sir Christopher looked up, apparently relieved. 

“ Scientific men,” he said, “ have all advanced 
with the times. I daresay your friend is clever.” 

“ Clever! ” echoed Harry, “ Tom is as sharp as a 


THE DEED 


159 


steel trap, and awfully keen about his work. He is 
an M.A., and a B.M., and F.R.S., and a lot more. 
He is a brain specialist, and all his time outside of 
his active work (for he is in great demand as an 
expert to decide about wills and supposed lunatics), 
he spends among human debris, examining brains 
and skulls, and making what he calls ‘prepara- 
tions/ ” 

“ How did you happen to know him so well ? ” 
asked Sir Christopher. 

" Tom’s father and mother lived at the Grange 
when I was a boy. Dr. Broadhurst was rector at 
Warmouth then, and he is now Bishop of Bar- 
chester.” 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed Sir Christopher, his interest 
quite aroused, “ then he is a grandson of old Lord 
Starling; I knew Lady Caroline before she was mar- 
ried. But did not your father’s becoming a Roman- 
ist make any difference to them ? ” 

“ Not the slightest,” answered Harry. “ Dr. 
Broadhurst and Lady Caroline loved my mother 
dearly, and they were glad when her husband fol- 
lowed her into the Catholic Church. You see, they 
are very high-church Anglicans themselves.” 

“ Umph ! ” grunted Sir Christopher, losing his 
cheerfulness. “And what brings your friend into 
this neighborhood? ” he asked. 

“ He says that Barchester is altogether too fine 
for a doctor’s holiday. He loves this old place, and 


160 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


we are glad to be together for a part of the year. 
He has built a little bungalow next to my old nurse 
Norah’s cottage, on the road to the village. He and 
his man-servant live in it, and Norah cooks and 
washes for them. I am sure you will like Tom, 
Uncle Christopher.” 

“ Humph! ” muttered Sir Christopher doubtfully. 


CHAPTER XVI 


H ARRY met Tom Broadhurst in the lounge- 
hall just before the gong sounded for dinner; 
Sir Christopher had not yet come downstairs. 
When Tom took off his hat and overcoat he revealed 
a slim, alert figure, and a clean-shaven freckled 
face, hair of a deep red, a turned-up nose, and a 
smiling mouth set with brilliant white teeth. His 
grey eyes were sharply observant, and his good 
nature absolutely beyond the reach of irritation. 
Tom Broadhurst could sing amusing songs, and 
played his own accompaniments upon a guitar. He 
had always seemed like a changeling in the nursery 
of an Anglican clergyman and his aristocratic wife, 
but his high-bred parents simply doted upon him. 
He furnished the fun and humor that they liked but 
lacked ; and they had long ago ceased to regret that 
Tom was an unexpected throw-back “ to a remote 
Irish ancestor.” 

“ What is the matter with him ? ” asked Tom, who 
had been prepared by Harry’s note of invitation to 
inspect his Uncle Christopher. 

“ That is what I want you to find out,” answered 
Harry, “ I can only call it * queer,’ and Balters, his 
valet, uses the same expression.” 

161 


1 62 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


“What form does the queerness take?” asked 
Tom. 

“ Just now a violent hatred against religion,” 
answered Harry. “ He has thrown himself into all 
these modern infidel movements; Eugenics, and the 
Lord knows what besides.” 

Tom whistled. 

“ I should like to commit that whole crowd to 
Hanwell,” he said; “ it would be the safest place for 
them, and much better for the world. These people 
don’t know the harm they are doing any more than 
a lunatic does when he fires a powder magazine. I 
call the whole business a ‘ well-meant infamy.’ By 
the way, I got that expression from the Bishop, 
and it defines exactly the whole movement of mod- 
ern ‘ humanitarianism.’ It is made up of all the old 
virtues, shrieking, with their hair down ; gone quite 
mad.” 

At this moment Sir Christopher appeared on the 
stairs just as the gong rang for dinner. He and 
Tom eyed each other critically after shaking hands. 

“ I should take you for an Irishman,” Sir Christo- 
pher remarked. 

“ I am a throw-back,” answered Tom. “ I was a 
surprise to my mother and father, but I really think, 
after all, a pleasure, too; for I stirred things up a 
good deal in an otherwise quiet and orderly nursery 
and in a distinctly well-behaved family. My sisters 
are pretty and proper like Mamma. My appear- 


THE DEED 


163 

ance, too, saved me from the Church, and gave me 
to science, which was what I ardently desired. You 
see, Sir Christopher, even if I had had a vocation to 
be a clergyman, I should surely have been mistaken, 
if I wore a Roman collar, for a Popish priest.” 

Sir Christopher winced at the word, even while he 
smiled. Tom examined him with a keen eye as they 
passed into the dining-room. I shall not report 
the conversation that took place during the meal, 
merely remarking that both at dinner and afterward, 
Tom (being bent upon a professional examination) 
skilfully goaded Sir Christopher until that gentle- 
man finally broke out in a fit of rage against all the 
corruption and superstition called religion that had 
been blackening the world for centuries. 

When Tom departed at half-past ten, Harry ac- 
companied him part of the way home, going as far 
as the gate that opened on the road to Warmouth. 

“ There is undoubtedly something very wrong 
with your uncle,” Tom asserted. “ He has got, 
stowed away in his brain at the back of all this ab- 
stract malevolence against religion, some concrete 
idea or intention — I think a sort of method — in 
his madness. He might turn into a monomaniac. 
It is impossible to be sure, as yet, just what is 
really the matter with him; some physical trouble 
may perhaps be at the bottom of it — stiffened ar- 
teries or degenerate kidneys. There is a decided 
tendency toward apoplectic symptoms. His face 


164 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

gets mottled when he is excited. I really felt rather 
sorry to stir him up, especially while he was eating 
his dinner; but that is what I came here for, and I 
flatter myself I did it pretty thoroughly. Come back 
to the bungalow with me, Harry, and Til play the 
guitar for you.” 

“ I can’t to-night,” answered Harry, closing the 
gate as Tom passed out. “ I really feel too worried. 
If my uncle had not become so aggressively hostile 
to me, I should not mind it so much; all his bitter- 
ness is focussed upon myself just now.” 

Tom turned back, saying, “ You did not tell me 
this before. Have you especially remarked it? ” he 
asked, talking through the bars of the gate. “ For 
to-night I must say it was not strikingly apparent 
to me.” 

Harry mentioned Sir Christopher’s recent desire 
to win him over to the “ Forward Movement,” and 
his bitter disgust at the prospect of the Leighton 
name going down to a Catholic posterity. Tom 
seemed much disturbed. 

“ In a case like this, any prejudice may become a 
monomania. Look out for yourself, Harry, for 
this may really become a serious matter.” 

“ Oh, I am safe enough,” laughed Harry, " and 
besides I am off to France in less than two weeks. I 
am counting the days. Good night, old chap. I’ll 
see you to-morrow ! ” and Harry turned back, walk- 
ing slowly along the wide carriage-drive, where the 


THE DEED 


165 


moon, almost full, cast wonderful shadows of inter- 
laced twigs and leaves, quivering like great dim 
moths on the smooth white surface of the road. An 
owl hooted in an old hollow tree, but all around the 
night was still and silent. Suddenly as Harry 
emerged from the park and began to cross the wide 
lawn, smooth and shining silvery in the moonlight, 
he thought that he heard a noise of crackling twigs 
behind a clump of large trees, from which he had a 
moment before emerged. Turning about, he saw 
Sir Christopher step out into the light of the moon 
from behind the trunk of a great oak which Harry 
had passed a minute earlier. Sir Christopher was 
without either hat or overcoat and carried a heavy 
stick. He advanced across the lawn toward Harry, 
who quietly waited for him. 

“ It is a chilly night, Uncle Christopher,” he said, 
“ to be out in a light dinner-jacket.” 

“ I thought that I, too, would take a walk ; I was 
stifling with the heat inside,” was his uncle’s answer, 
as together they crossed the lawn toward the front 
of the house, where in the wide open doorway 
through which the yellow light was streaming, 
Harry saw an expectant footman standing who 
could see them both distinctly as they approached. 
The two men entered the house and separated with a 
brief good night. 

When Harry had gone upstairs into his own 
room, the same half consciousness of an undefined 


1 66 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


danger, hovering closer and closer, took hold of 
him. 

“ I wish I were off to France and that this week 
was over,” he said to himself. 


CHAPTER XVII 


T HE next morning Harry was informed that 
Sir Christopher would not come down to 
breakfast. Balters said that his master seemed not 
at all well but had refused to have the doctor sum- 
moned from Warmouth. Harry set off immedi- 
ately after a light meal for a long ride. As he gal- 
loped over the turf or along the soft country roads, 
and looked at the every-day landscape, the trees, the 
sky and the scattered farm-houses, with the blue 
hills on one side and the blue sea on the other, he 
felt all the cobwebs of apprehension swept out of his 
brain, and his young heart leapt with the “ joie de 
vivre.” Everything in the world that he could de- 
sire was his — love, health and youth; and as he 
sped gaily across the rolling country, leaping an 
occasional ditch or fence, he forgot every worry and 
care, and thought only of his happiness. 

Harry was rather surprised to learn, upon his 
return at the luncheon hour, that Sir Christopher 
was not coming downstairs, and that Balters had 
carried to his room a light repast. 

Harry devoured a solitary meal, and, going up- 
stairs immediately afterward, knocked at Sir Chris- 
167 


1 68 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


topher’s door. He received no answer. Knowing 
that Balters was eating his own dinner down below, 
Harry concluded that his uncle must have fallen 
asleep, and passing along the wide corridor he en- 
tered his bed-room. Happening to look out of the 
window a moment later, what was Harry’s amaze- 
ment to descry Sir Christopher’s receding form, 
hastening down the footpath that led through the 
woods to the postern gate in the wall, the nearest 
way to the town. Sir Christopher seemed to be 
dodging from one tree to another, as though to 
escape observation, before reaching the shadow and 
concealment of the woods; but Harry had caught a 
distinct glimpse of him. His height and clothes 
were unmistakable. 

“ What on earth is he about ? ” Harry asked him- 
self — and, checking an impulse to follow his uncle, 
he determined to remain on the watch himself un- 
seen, near the window. About an hour later, Sir 
Christopher reappeared — approaching the house as 
stealthily as he had left it, under cover of the trees 
and bushes. Entering through a small door which 
opened directly into the lounge-hall from the garden, 
Sir Christopher slipped upstairs, merely remarking 
to the amazed Balters, whom he encountered ap- 
proaching his bed-room on tip-toe : “ I thought that 
a walk would do me good — You may say that I 
shall be down for dinner — but you need not men- 
tion to any one that I have been out.” 


THE DEED 


169 


Sir Christopher’s migraine and ill-temper, how- 
ever, did not seem to have passed away with the set- 
ting of the sun, although the pink and gold and 
heliotrope of its harmony in the twilight, and the 
pale gleam of the full moon risen in the east two 
hours earlier, might have soothed the most savage 
breast. As they sat facing each other in the dining- 
room Harry could see at a glance that his uncle was 
going through what modern science picturesquely 
calls a “ brain-storm,” and that conflicting thoughts 
and impulses were fighting hard behind his eyes. 

“ I wish Tom could see him like this ! ” he 
thought. “ He is really not himself. Any one 
might think him possessed or obsessed by an evil 
power ! ” 

When he spoke at all during dinner, Sir Christo- 
pher breathed hard and articulate speech seemed an 
effort, although he uttered only the most common- 
place observations about the weather and the shoot- 
ing-parties at Leighton Towers which were to take 
place before Constance’s wedding. He seemed to 
talk more at the butler and footman than to Harry, 
apparently wishing that the servants should not 
notice the slightest strained relations between them. 
He even said “ dear Harry ” several times, although 
it was quite superfluous, and he did not seem at all 
affectionate. His eyelids twitched spasmodically, 
and when he was not eating he tapped nervously 
with the fingers of his right hand against the waist- 


170 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

coat pocket on that side; either an unconscious ges- 
ture or as if furtively to make sure of some object 
inside of it. When dinner was over, Sir Christo- 
pher suddenly said to Harry : 

“ Why don’t we have coffee and cigars on the 
terrace as you do in summer? It is such a warm 
night, and there’s quite light enough. The moon 
will be bright when the twilight fades.” 

Harry gave the order, and as they went out (Sir 
Christopher passing ahead of him), he noticed that 
his uncle shivered, although he had just said that it 
was a warm night. 

“ Won’t you put on an overcoat ? ” asked Harry. 

“ Certainly not ! ” answered Sir Christopher 
testily, “ I’m not an old man yet. I may even out- 
live some who are not half as old! ” he added rather 
defiantly. 

“ I’m sure I hope so, Uncle Christopher,” said 
Harry cheerily. “ I don’t see why you should not 
live to be a hundred; I hope that you will see Con- 
ny’s children grow up around you and be happy 
with them, and mine too,” Harry wound up, want- 
ing to be friendly. 

Sir Christopher turned suddenly upon him a 
face so fiendish, that, as the moonlight struck across 
it and brought out a sharp gleam from the eyes un- 
der the frowning brow, it looked like the face of 
a malevolent gargoyle. Harry caught his breath 
and walked on quickly. At this moment a foot- 


THE DEED 


171 

man, carrying the coffee and cigars, overtook them, 
and, as uncle and nephew seated themselves at the 
long stone table, he put down the tray and was about 
to pour out the coffee from a little silver pot, when 
Sir Christopher held up his hand. 

“Stop!” he said abruptly. “You may go; it 
will keep hotter in the pot and we won’t drink it 
just now.” His voice sounded smooth and quiet 
in amazing contrast to the look that was on his face 
only a moment before. He got up as soon as the 
footman’s back was turned, and taking a cigar 
from the box on the table, he lighted it, puffing 
hard, so that the match flared and the gleam in his 
eyes flashed deadly. Harry sprang to his feet and 
laid his fingers on the handle of the coffee-pot. 

“ Not yet,” said Sir Christopher blandly. “ Let 
us smoke a little first.” 

Harry felt a creeping shiver down his back as 
his uncle, having lighted a cigar from his own, 
handed it to him. There seemed to be something 
portentous, he knew not what, in the very air that 
quivered around them with its scent of the sea and 
the earth. It appeared to Harry as though myriads 
of invisible eyes were watching them with a tense 
interest and apprehension. And yet their sur- 
rounding and occupations were those of the most 
ordinary every-day life — two twentieth century 
Englishmen in dinner jackets, smoking, with after- 
dinner coffee, cigars and matches on a table beside 


172 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

them. Why should Harry’s flesh creep as he 
watched his uncle, and why did Sir Christopher 
breathe hard between his teeth as he suddenly rose 
to his feet, put down his cigar carefully on the edge 
of the stone table, turned his back upon Harry, 
and reaching across the silver tray, took the coffee- 
pot in his left hand? 

“ I am afraid that our coffee is getting cold. 
Let me be host,” he said, still in a smooth, quiet 
voice. Harry sat perfectly still and silent as though 
hypnotized. One swift thought passed through his 
mind. “ Uncle Christopher is not left-handed,” 
and Harry dimly wondered why he had taken the 
pot in his left hand. And then Harry noticed a 
curious thing. Sir Christopher poured out the cof- 
fee steadily with his left hand, his back being still 
turned to Harry. He appeared to fumble in his 
waistcoat pocket and then do something with his 
right hand, before putting two lumps of sugar into 
the small cup. His broad back concealed his move- 
ments. 

“You take two , I believe?” he asked, turning 
around abruptly when he had finished. 

“ Yes,” said Harry, still feeling numb, and, as 
it were, hypnotized; his gaze riveted upon that 
small cup of coffee. 

The air was very still. In the thick copse to the 
east an owl hooted, and in the distant stable-yard 
a dog bayed at the moon. Sir Christopher poured 


THE DEED 


173 


out some coffee in the second cup for himself, this 
time taking the pot in his right hand, and he put 
one lump of sugar into it. Then he carefully 
handed the first cup to Harry. 

“ This one has two lumps/’ he remarked. 

There was the same tense and awful stillness, 
as of some undefined menace hovering in the at- 
mosphere. This perfectly commonplace proceed- 
ing seemed, somehow, as though it were the sacri- 
ficial right of a pitiless heathen cult. Harry raised 
the cup to his lips with a distinct, although un- 
defined misgiving, and was about to drink it; when, 
with a hoarse cry, Sir Christopher sprang to his 
feet, and putting down his own untasted coffee, 
snatched the cup from Harry’s hand and threw the 
contents on the short grass behind the bench, where 
the sugar, still unmelted, shone for a moment in the 
moonlight, two little pale spots on an obscure back- 
ground. 

“ Something flew into it ! ” gasped Sir Christo- 
pher. “ I saw it — a gnat or something. The 
moonlight is so bright.” His teeth chattered as 
he spoke. “Take my cup, Harry; here’s another 
lump of sugar for you!” and nervously, with a 
shaking hand, Sir Christopher gave Harry his own 
cup, and then poured more coffee into the other 
one which he had just emptied in the grass. But 
he did not drink the coffee; he only held the cup 
in his hand until Harry had finished. 


174 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

“ It really is cold ! ” exclaimed Sir Christopher 
with a shudder. “ Suppose we go in.’' 

He turned aside, and Harry, out of the tail of 
his eye, saw his uncle furtively empty the cup he 
held into the grass, after which he set it softly 
down upon the silver tray. The tenseness and 
menace of danger seemed gone suddenly from the 
air, and a breeze sprang up like a great breath of 
relief. The moonlight shone mellow and soft, and 
the fragrance of late roses filled the air. Not a 
word was spoken during the walk back from the 
terrace. Sir Christopher seemed a little crest- 
fallen but in a much better temper, apparently. He 
even said good night to Harry as he took up his 
bed-room candle, and his voice sounded more nat- 
ural than it had for many days. Harry was per- 
turbed and perplexed, and in his own room he sat 
a long while at the window pondering — what was 
it that his uncle had meant to do, but did not? 

He shrank from his own conclusion. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


T HE next morning bright and early, Sir Chris- 
topher went out walking with both hands 
stuffed in the pockets of his shooting- jacket, and 
his hat pulled down over his forehead. He strode 
briskly along the wide garden path toward the ter- 
race by the sea. Harry saw him from his win- 
dow, and hastened downstairs to follow him. 

Sir Christopher reached the terrace just as a 
small, freckled boy in shirt-sleeves, who was roll- 
ing the lawn with a roller which seemed too big 
for him, had come near to the stone bench and 
table. He was evidently a boy of Irish blood, with 
a turned-up nose and sandy hair; also a large smil- 
ing mouth under a long upper lip. He was the 
grandson of Harry’s old nurse Norah, and his name 
was Patrick, commonly called “ Patsy.” The boy 
stopped suddenly; ran forward ahead of the roller, 
and, stooping down, picked up an object that was 
lying in the grass; something small and brown. 

“What is that?” asked Sir Christopher, coming 
up to him quickly. 

The small boy touched his hat. “ Sure, it’s a 
little field mouse, your honour, if you plaze, sir.” 
i7S 


176 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

Patsy spoke with a fine brogue and had not in any 
way been anglicized, his grandmother having kept 
him by her side and taught him all he knew. He 
had just begun, with great pride, to be allowed to 
work in the garden. 

“What killed it?” asked Sir Christopher. 

“ Sure it couldn’t have been an owl or a cat, sir, 
for they’d have aten it, plaze your honour,” an- 
swered Patsy. “It smells kind of quare,” he 
added. 

“ Throw it over the terrace where the tide will 
get it,” said Sir Christopher hastily, apparently 
with more vehemence than the occasion warranted. 

At this moment Harry arrived on the spot and 
before the little boy could comply with Sir Chris- 
topher’s command, he said, with a quick look of 
eagerness in his eye : “ Let me look at it, Patsy ! ” 

Sir Christopher interfered. “ Let him throw 
the nasty thing away ! ” he cried. “ He says it 
smells ! ” 

“ Why, I can hardly believe that it is really dead,” 
exclaimed Harry, taking the small creature in his 
hand, whose half-open eyes caught a gleam of light. 

“ You’re not going to try to resuscitate a mouse, 
I should hope,” sneered Sir Christopher angrily. 
“ Do throw it away and come to breakfast. It is 
not appetizing.” 

Harry walked to the edge of the terrace where 
the tide came up every day in September, and 


THE DEED 


177 


feigned to throw the mouse far out into the ap- 
proaching surf ; but he really put the corpse secretly 
into his pocket. “ I am going to show it to Tom 
Broadhurst,” he said to himself, for his suspicions 
of last night were taking shape. 

Tom was seated reading and smoking after his 
breakfast when Harry Leighton burst into the 
room, holding in his outstretched hand a small 
brown mouse, dead. 

“ Find out what it died of ! ” he cried abruptly. 

“ There’s no need to find out ” rejoined Tom 
quietly, as Harry thrust the little corpse under his 
nose. “ I can smell it. It is cyanide of potas- 
sium! ” Tom looked up with a grin, but he turned 
quite sober when he saw the expression of horror 
on Harry’s face. “ Your uncle’s doing? ” he asked 
at once. 

“ It was meant for me,” gasped Harry, putting 
down the mouse and sinking into a leather arm- 
chair. He then told Tom Broadhurst all that had 
happened the night before, and in the morning. 

“ I saw the two lumps of still unmelted sugar dis- 
tinctly in the moonlight lying on the lawn behind 
the stone bench. It was exactly on the same spot 
that this poor little beggar lay this morning dead. 
I saw Patsy pick it up.” 

“ It would not stray far after such a dose as that. 
There must have been enough poison in that soaked 
sugar to kill a strong man. I say ! ” cried Tom, 


178 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


suddenly jumping up from his chair. “ I was at 
Warmouth yesterday afternoon, and I thought I 
saw Sir Christopher whisk out of the chemist’s 
shop and make off toward the park ! ” 

“ This is really too horrible. It is incredible ! ” 
faltered Harry. 

“ Homicidal mania,” said Tom. “ His sub-con- 
scious self jumps up with an * idee fixe’ and gets 
control of him. He was just sane enough last 
night to dominate it; but he needs looking after. 
Just now it seems to be a monomania — a wish to 
kill you — but it may develop too into a rage to kill 
anybody and everybody. If you still refuse to ar- 
rest him or have me put him into a private asylum, 
the best thing you can possibly do, Harry, for him 
as well as for yourself, is to get out of his way until 
your wedding is over. Can’t you do this ? ” 

“ I might go down to Saint-Lambert sooner than 
I had intended,” said Harry. “ They asked me to 
come for a few days before the wedding. Made- 
moiselle du Parquet thought it improper, but the 
dear old Marquis only laughed, and said that 
Melanie was going to be English after her mar- 
riage, and that she might as well begin now. I 
can’t have my clothes and everything ready for a 
week at least, but they could be sent to Paris. At 
any rate, I might run up to London this afternoon 
and not come back here again before I go to France. 
To tell the truth, Tom, this uncanny behaviour of 


THE DEED 


179 


my uncle is getting on my nerves, and I must thwart 
him for his sake as well as my own. I must care- 
fully keep all this from Constance also, and try 
every means in my power before letting her sus- 
pect the truth. For perhaps, as you say yourself, 
this may be a passing fit of frenzy brought on for 
aught we know by some physical disease. As to 
attempting to shut up Uncle Christopher in a sana- 
torium, that is quite out of the question for the 
present. I shall certainly not consent to anything 
of the kind until Constance’s wedding is over. 
After that, of course, if my uncle does not get bet- 
ter, I should authorise you to lay hold of him. 
Meantime, he may come to his senses. Do you 
think, yourself, that he is really responsible for 
what he has done ? ” 

“ My dear fellow,” Tom replied, “ the irrespon- 
sible criminal dear to modern criminology, was ac- 
tually evolved many years ago by ‘ mad doctors,’ 
called in as experts, who often insisted that crimes 
had been committed by persons who ‘ could not help ’ 
perpetrating them, on account of some physical mal- 
formation or hereditary tendency. Lord Bram- 
well’s favourite question addressed to scientific per- 
sons defending a prisoner on this ground has be- 
come celebrated. 

“ ‘ Do you think he would have acted as he did 
if he had seen a policeman watching him and ready 
to take him into custody ? ’ ” 


i8o SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


“ Uncle Christopher arrested himself last night, 
at any rate,” Harry insisted. 

“ He did,” said Tom, “ because he has still a rem- 
nant of a conscience. I myself prefer to believe 
in the devil rather than in total depravity — or in 
that most dangerous explanation of all, attempted 
by scientific humanitarianism, which denies the ex- 
istence of sin and the devil altogether, and makes 
crime a mere accident of ancestry. I tell you, 
Harry, that this whole forward movement has let 
loose upon the world an evil contagion worse than 
the bubonic plague, and it spreads like wildfire. 
Even ten years ago one would not have thought it 
possible to see unrestrained maniacs, both men and 
women, waving the ancient banners of ‘ the rights 
of man ’ and ‘ the rights of woman/ while shouting 
aloud their enthusiasm over arson, free love, and 
murder. I shall watch Sir Christopher closely, I 
promise you,” Tom concluded, “ but you yourself 
must positively leave Warmouth by the afternoon 
train to-day. Let him think that you are only go- 
ing away for a night or two (that is a white lie for 
a patient). Then you can wire from town to-mor- 
row that you are detained on business and can’t 
leave London until you go to France. I shall su- 
perintend * Uncle Christopher ’ and see what he 
does about it. The best thing that can possibly 
happen to him is that he should go home to Leigh- 
ton Towers and simmer down. He can wreak his 


THE DEED 


181 


murderous instincts on the lower animals during 
the shooting season, and may weather this ‘ brain- 
storm/ ” 

“ But will Constance and Lady Louisa be safe 
with him ? ” asked Harry. “ That is the only thing 
that troubles me in leaving Uncle Christopher at 
large/’ 

“ Perfectly safe for the present,” replied Tom 
decidedly. “ I am beginning to believe, myself, that 
your Uncle Christopher has been run mad by that 
genial Harvard professor. And no wonder,” Tom 
continued, walking up and down, with his hands in 
his pockets. “ Without being a Romanist, my dear 
boy, one can still understand the absolute need of 
religion throughout the world. Take, for example, 
the modern Jew who is what is called * Reformed ’ 
(which means that he has abandoned the expecta- 
tion of a Messiah and the observances of the old 
Hebrew faith altogether). There is no worse neu- 
rasthenic than he is, this degenerate offspring of the 
most enduring and persistent race in history. If 
he feels an ache or a pain he is frightened out of his 
wits. He sends post-haste for a doctor when he 
has no real ailment, and the idea of death appals 
him. The old believing Hebrew, on the other hand, 
was courageous and indomitable through life and 
in the face of death. He dreaded neither pain nor 
illness, and faced the end proudly, stiffening him- 
self and saying: ‘It is the will of God!’ X tell 


1 82 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


you, Harry, that not only your Church, but the ex- 
perience of the entire human race, proves that 
morality, law, and order cannot exist without reli- 
gion. 

“ This is my hobby, my monomania, Harry, both 
as a Christian, the son of a Bishop, and as a doctor 

— but especially as a ‘ brain expert/ You can un- 
derstand, then, my double delight in getting hold 
of such a typical case as your uncle’s, for they w are 
rare as yet — the aggressive humanitarian maniacs 

— but they have grown and increased in France 
(which takes the lead in atheism) and they are 
bound to spring up everywhere in this modern world 
that is going mad, and is bent upon destroying Chris- 
tian religion and Christian morality. 

“ We, who still fight for the Church of England 
against the invasion of modernism (which denies 
and pulls down everything and builds up nothing), 
are appalled at the leaps and bounds of ‘ Progressiv- 
ism.’ It thinks itself modern, but it was an Infidel 
movement, called by its present name and started in 
the eighteenth century by Mirabeau, with Talley- 
rand as his mouthpiece; for the former’s speech on 
the ‘ droits de succession ’ was read by Talleyrand 
on April 4th, 1791, two days after Mirabeau’s death, 
before the Assemblee Nationale. This movement 
was called Progressivism and was an effort to sub- 
stitute the State for the parents, to upset God’s in- 
stitution, the family, and to rob fathers of the right 


THE DEED 


183 

to educate their own children. It was a blow struck 
at the root of all dependence upon God. Why, 
Harry, as a brain expert — as a doctor — I can trace 
the ills of our modern society directly to the decay 
of religion. People talk of that all-pervading com- 
plaint, neurasthenia, being a product of the excite- 
ment and haste of our high-pressure lives. That is 
absolutely false. All these nervous disturbances 
can be traced, in nine cases out of ten, directly to the 
loss of that old faith which trusted in God. The 
renegade Christian has forgotten even the meaning 
of ‘ resignation.’ He refuses to submit to poverty 
or privation or sorrow. An impotent howl against 
the inevitable is what undermines our modern nerv- 
ous systems. They are bound either to go to pieces, 
or, for self-preservation, to adopt always the ‘ line 
of least resistance ’ in everything.” 

“ My dear fellow, I did not know that you could 
preach so well,” exclaimed Harry, laughing. 

“ But this is all professional talk, old chap. It is 
a part of my ‘ shop,’ ” retorted Tom, “ and the men 
in science who don’t see the folly of Negation are 
growing fewer. Science is steering straight toward 
a recognition of the unseen and of God. When it 
groped and tottered, it denied everything supernat- 
ural. It ignored the invisible. The further science 
advances in wisdom the more wonders it beholds, 
and the nearer it approaches to a clear and defined 
knowledge of God Almighty! Read ‘Autoritat 


1 84 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


und Freiheit ’ by Professor Foerster of Zurich (for- 
merly an unbeliever), and you’ll see what I mean. 
Even the men I know who used to laugh at me as a 
‘ believing doctor ’ are coming my way now. They 
see the hideous abnormal results of Denial. They 
know it at last by its fruits!” Tom waved his 
hand. “ You go home and pack,” he said authori- 
tatively, “ and take your obnoxious papist presence 
out of your Uncle Christopher’s neighbourhood. I 
will watch him. I will stay at home this morning 
in case you should want me before you leave, and 
I will step into Tugman’s — the chemist’s — early 
this afternoon and adroitly discover what your uncle 
bought there yesterday — and I’ll wager that it was 
cyanide of potassium, and that Sir Christopher said 
it was for photography ! ” 

Tom grinned with professional satisfaction, and 
taking his guitar, he leaned back in a low chair and 
sang the ancient song of “ Old Sir Simon, the 
King”; while Harry walked back, more than ever 
perplexed and horrified, not only at his own personal 
risk from the attacks of a madman, but at the awful 
prospect which Tom had opened up before him of a 
whole world gone mad. More than ever in his life 
before did Harry feel that enduring safety and a 
sure refuge can be found only in the Catholic 
Church ; and he thanked God that he was a Catholic. 


CHAPTER XIX 


S IR CHRISTOPHER eyed Harry suspiciously 
when he announced his departure to London 
by the afternoon train, but the only remark he made 
was: “If you are coming back to-morrow or next 
day I could stay on here until you return, but, in any 
event, I must go home on Saturday. We are expect- 
ing a lot of people for the week-end, and next week 
we shall have some shooting. Do you think that 
you will surely be back to-morrow? ” he added, per- 
sistently. “ Because, if not, I might run up to town 
with you myself to-day and go from there to Leigh- 
ton Towers, Saturday.” 

Harry gave a hasty assurance that he was almost 
sure to return the next day, and immediately left the 
room feeling rather dissatisfied with himself. 

“ I half believe that he thinks I am running away 
from him, which moreover is quite true. It is so 
hard to tell a lie, even the pardonable kind that Tom 
calls ‘ professional/ ” 

Harry went along the corridor in the east wing to 
the big room where he transacted all his business, 
and where, set into a deep recess, there stood a large 
iron safe which held leases, deeds and legal papers 
185 


1 86 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


of all kinds, besides antique silver and other 
things of value. Harry had just remembered that, 
as he should not come back, he must take with him 
his mother’s diamond necklace which he meant 
should be his wedding gift to Melanie. He opened 
the door of the safe and stooping down, lifted the 
red morocco case from a shelf inside. Reverently 
Harry opened it and looked at the “riviere” of 
wonderful stones that seemed to contain in their 
own hearts all the flashing, many-tinted shafts of 
light that darted from each facet as if to meet and 
challenge the rays of the sun, striking full upon them 
through the open window. The necklace was of 
enormous value, but Harry did not think of that as 
he bent his head and kissed the open case. 

“ My father’s gift to my mother, and mine to 
Melanie ! ” he whispered, and then he said a little 
prayer and crossed himself. 

At that instant the sun was darkened and the light 
in the stones went out. “ Worshipping Mammon, 
eh? ” said a harsh, jeering voice, and Harry, turning 
about, beheld Sir Christopher’s head and shoulders 
framed in the wide open window that looked into 
the garden. A curl of tobacco smoke went lazily 
up from the cigar in his mouth, and his hat was 
tilted far back on his head. 

“ I really did not mean to intrude upon any ‘ sa- 
cred office,’ ” he continued, taking the cigar from be- 
tween his lips, “ but I was told that you were here, 


THE DEED 


187 


and as I was in the garden I came to this window 
to speak to you.” While he uttered these words, 
Sir Christopher eyed the jewels intently, which 
Harry, blushing and feeling guilty as though caught 
thieving, still held in his hand. 

“By Jove!” exclaimed Sir Christopher, thrust- 
ing his head further through the window. “ Now 
that I see the object of your veneration more dis- 
tinctly, it seems really more worthy of worship than 
a Papist shrine ! ” 

Harry raised his head, and closed the case. 
“ This necklace was my father’s wedding-gift to 
my mother, and that is why I hold it sacred,” he 
said quietly, looking straight into the mocking face 
of his uncle. 

Sir Christopher suddenly, with a lift of his strong 
arms and powerful shoulders, raised himself up and, 
swinging his legs over the wide window-sill, entered 
the room and approached Harry. 

“ Are you taking it away now?” he asked, with 
an entire change of manner, and pointing his finger 
at the red morocco jewel case in his nephew’s hand. 

“ Yes,” faltered Harry, again looking quite guilty. 
“ It is to be my wedding-gift to Melanie.” 

Sir Christopher shot at Harry a quick glance from 
bloodshot eyes : “ Why are you taking it to-day, 

if you really mean to come back to-morrow?” he 
asked, significantly. 

Harry mumbled something about having a jew- 


1 88 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


eller look the necklace over, and then, striving to 
seem quite unconscious of his uncle’s gaze, he locked 
the safe, putting the key in his pocket, and deposited 
the jewel-case in a leather valise that lay open on 
the floor at his feet and which was packed with pa- 
pers and legal documents that Harry meant to take 
to his lawyer in London. Harry locked the valise 
also, and then turning to Sir Christopher, “ Shall we 
take a walk before luncheon? ” he asked. 

Sir Christopher stood still, looking intently at the 
leather valise. He bit his under lip, and his eyelids 
twitched nervously. 

“ I don’t care to walk,” he said. “ I also have 
some preparations to make before you go to Lon- 
don,” and, turning on his heel, Sir Christopher left 
the room, by the door this time, crossed through the 
corridor and the long library, into the lounge hall, 
and mounted the wide staircase, not looking either 
to the right or the left, but with frowning eyes fixed 
upon the ground, until he came to his own room. 
At the door stood the faithful Balters, eyeing his 
master as an anxious dog might who feels sure, by 
instinct, that something is very wrong. 

“ Pack my things, Balters,” ordered Sir Christo- 
pher. “ We shall motor over to Barchester late this 
afternoon and take the seven-twenty train up to 
London. But mind ” he added, sternly, “ you are 
to say that we expect to catch the seven o’clock train 
down from London at Barchester, and that we shall 


THE DEED 


189 


go back to Leighton Towers to-night. Don’t let 
anybody suspect that we mean to go up to town, 
do you hear?” 

“ Quite right, Sir Christopher,” assented poor 
Balters, feeling convinced that everything was quite 
wrong. 

“ Whatever can I do ? ” exclaimed the forlorn 
valet, when his master had left the room. He 
wrung his hands in utter helplessness. “ Sir Chris- 
topher is wrong in his head — I know he is. He 
is not the same kind master that Eve served these 
twenty years. Whatever can I do? I can’t speak 
to Lady Louisa nor to Miss Constance — it would 
only scare them oilt of their wits, poor ladies, and 
they are as helpless as I am with Sir Christopher. 
I can’t speak to Mr. Harry either, for there the 
whole trouble seems to lie. Him and my master is 
not on good terms. Mr. Harry is a splendid gen- 
tleman but Sir Christopher has come to hate him, I 
know he has. I’ve heard him muttering awful 
words, when he forgets I am in the room. He is 
touched in his head. I know he is ! ” And the 
helpless Balters went on worrying and worrying, 
while he packed his master’s things to be ready for 
the journey. Suddenly Balters jumped up from 
fastening a strap. 

“ By Jarge, I’ve got it!” he cried, exultingly. 
“ I’ll go to that young doctor chap and tell him all 
about it. He’s a ‘ mad doctor,’ they say, and I know 


iqo SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


Sir Christopher likes him, for he said he did.” 

The faithful Balters, delighted with his own 
astuteness and relieved to have some one to cling 
to and who could help his master, slipped away from 
the house through the postern door in the east wing, 
while Sir Christopher and Harry were at luncheon, 
and, walking as fast as the legs of a respectable valet 
would permit, he reached the small cottage on the 
Warmouth road just as Tom Broadhurst had fin- 
ished a hearty meal and sat smoking a large pipe, 
with a heavy volume propped open before him on 
the table. 

“ Plaze, doctor,” said Norah, appearing at the 
door that led into the kitchen, “ it is the valet of Sir 
Christopher Leighton (the man’s name is Balters) 
who says he’d like to spake to you.” 

“ Show him in, please,” said Tom, and Balters 
came in, shutting the kitchen door carefully behind 
him. He stood still with his hat in his hand and 
an uncertain and appealing look in his honest eyes, 
like a faithful dog pleading for help. Tom liked 
the man at a first glance. 

“ Sit down, please,” said Tom, kindly, “ and tell 
me without hesitation all about it.” 

Tom shrewdly suspected that Sir Christopher 
was the object of Balters’ visit; and when the valet’s 
story came to an end and he had wiped his eyes fur- 
tively on a pocket handkerchief which he took out of 
his hat, all Tom’s sympathy was aroused, especially 


THE DEED 


191 

for Balters, but even a little for Sir Christopher. 
Of course Balters did not know about the mouse, 
nor did Tom tell him, contenting himself with say- 
ing: 

“ Don’t worry yourself, Balters. Depend on me, 
and I will do everything I can. Your master is not 
responsible in his present state, for his actions. Mr. 
Harry, his nearest relation, has already asked me 
to keep an eye on him. With your help we can to- 
gether, I hope, prevent him from doing any injury 
to himself or to any one else.” 

“ Is it as bad as that, sir ? ” asked Balters. 

“ I’m afraid it is,” said Tom. “ But mind, I 
think you are quite safe.” 

“ It was not myself I thought about at all,” re- 
joined Balters reproachfully. “ No indeed. My 
master would never lay a finger on me were he ever 
so mad. Never a cross word have I had from him,” 
and the poor fellow burst into tears, which he wiped 
quickly away, and, putting the damp handkerchief 
back into his hat, he stood up straight and stiff 
again ; a well-trained gentleman’s servant, ready for 
orders. 

“ You go back,” said Tom, “ and keep a vigilant 
eye upon your master, if you can, until Mr. Harry 
gets away. Things will go all right, after that, un- 
til you get to London. I myself shall go up to town 
on the night train from here, and go to my rooms in 
Southwark, near St. Thomas’s Hospital. This is 


192 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


my address/’ and Tom handed Balters a card. 
“If anything goes wrong, do you come there early 
to-morrow morning. If not, stay in until I come to 
the house at eleven o’clock to get news. I don’t 
want you to leave the house unnecessarily. I sup- 
pose you will go to Sir Christopher’s town house in 
Mount Street?” 

“ Yes, sir, to Leighton House,” answered Balters. 
“ Sir Christopher said he was going there. You 
might come to the side door round the corner, sir, 
if you don’t mind. That is the door for the serv- 
ice, and Sir Christopher, if he is in, would be sure 
not to see you. I’ll let you in myself, sir. You see 
there are no servants left in the house. All are 
gone to Leighton Towers for the shooting season, 
and for Miss Constance’s wedding. Sir Christo- 
pher was not expecting to go up to town before then, 
sir.” 

“ I won’t keep it from you, Balters, that I con- 
sider the next few days days of danger, and that we 
must keep our heads clear and be ready for prompt 
action in any emergency.” 

“ Yes, sir, thank you,” answered Balters, and 
walked back an anxious man, but relieved and alert, 
for now he felt the responsibility taken from his 
own shoulders and the whole burden lifted by the 
capable hand of the “ mad doctor,” in whom Balters 
felt the most implicit confidence. That Balters 


THE DEED 


193 


should “ keep a vigilant eye ” upon Sir Christopher 
was easier said than done. The only eye that he 
could at a respectful distance keep upon him after 
luncheon gleamed through a half open blind in the 
pantry next the dining-room. A small open motor- 
car stood at the front door, and Blalters could see Sir 
Christopher inspecting it and the man who stood by 
it from the top of the steps. The pantry window 
was open. 

“ Is your master going to drive himself ? ” Balters 
heard Sir Christopher ask. 

“ He is, Sir Christopher/’ answered the man. 
“ He wants his valet to carry the leather valise and 
to sit beside him on the seat, so I shall walk to War- 
mouth and bring the car back.” 

“ That shortest way to Warmouth is a pretty bad 
road, isn’t it, for motoring?” asked the genial Sir 
Christopher, still talking to the chauffeur. 

“ There’s one very bad spot in it, sir, along the 
steep sand-bank by the inlet. But Mr. Harry’s a 
splendid driver, sir — only he likes to go quick,” the 
chauffeur added. 

“ I thought all good drivers did that,” said Sir 
Christopher. 

“ When you’ve once had an accident, as I had, sir, 
you get more careful ; at least I do, Sir Christopher,” 
answered the chauffeur. “ You see, sir, most bad 
accidents come from speed. If a car is going very 


i 9 4 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


fast, a bursting tyre makes it jump, and perhaps turn 
over, while at a moderate speed, sir, it is nothing to 
burst a tyre.” 

“Humph!” said Sir Christopher. “Your mas- 
ter is delayed inside. I’m afraid he will be late for 
the train. You need not wait: a motor does not 
need watching like a horse. You would better walk 
on ahead, now,” he added. 

“ Thank you, sir,” said the chauffeur, and walked 
away down the path that led straight through the 
park and over the little bridge to Warmouth. 

And then a curious thing happened. Balters saw 
it, with a thrill of helpless apprehension. Sir Chris- 
topher, who had never taken the least personal inter- 
est in his own motor-cars, and only looked upon them 
as a means of getting from one place to another, 
stepped down onto the gravel in front of the car, and 
stooping low with his right knee scraping the 
ground, he examined with great care the left front 
wheel. He even seemed to be rubbing or scratch- 
ing at something, with his strong right hand, on the 
rubber tyre low down. A moment later he got up 
again, dusting the sand and gravel from his trousers, 
while he looked around furtively. Not seeing the 
eye of Balters gazing through the blind at the pantry 
window, Sir Christopher drew a long breath of ap- 
parent satisfaction, and Harry appearing at that mo- 
ment, he said to him : 

“ My dear boy, I fear you will miss your train, but 


THE DEED 195 

I don’t want to say * drive fast,’ because I think fast 
driving very dangerous.” 

“ Oh, that is all right,” said Harry, as he jumped 
into the car followed by his valet, who, having 
packed the other luggage under the seat, held in his 
hand the brown leather valise. 

“ Caesar and his fortunes ! ” commented Sir Chris- 
topher with a meaning glance at the valise that held 
the diamonds. “ Well, good luck, Harry. Back 
to-morrow, eh? Do be careful on that bad spot of 
road at the edge of the sand-bank ! ” 

“ Never fear,” said Harry. “ My car is all right, 
the tyres are new.” In the bright sunlight all his 
misgivings melted away like terrors of the night, and 
with a cheerful “Good-bye, Uncle Christopher!” 
the car sprang forward at his bidding and hummed 
away down the long drive like a darting dragon-fly 
set free. 

Sir Christopher looked after it for a moment, and 
then, shrugging his broad shoulders, he mounted the 
steps and went into the house. Poor Balters, still 
at the pantry window, shuddered, helpless. What 
could he do? What was going to happen? He 
could not tell exactly, but he felt a dread of impend- 
ing evil that held him there breathless, until he heard 
the butler approaching from the servants’ hall below; 
and then Balters fled upstairs. 


CHAPTER XX 


T OM BROADHURST was walking slowly 
back from Warmouth, where Tugman, the 
chemist, had confirmed all his suspicions as to Sir 
Christopher’s errand. He had taken the lower 
road, which skirted the high sand-cliff, and had 
stopped at the edge of the water to skip a stone for 
his shaggy terrier, Roughy — who fished it out again 
and again ; and who now stood dripping in the sun- 
shine, wagging his stump of a tail and demanding an 
“encore” in a sharp, dry bark. Suddenly the 
whizz of a motor-car, speeding along the narrow 
road at the edge of the cliff above, caused Tom to 
turn sharply about. Pebbles and sand, scattered by 
the whirl of the wheels, flew over the brink and 
rattled on the beach sixty feet below, and the dog, 
stung by a very small stone, wheeled around, bark- 
ing furiously at the precipice, as if that were the 
assailant. 

“ Not a safe place to stand under, Roughy,” said 
his master. Two minutes later, Tom heard the mo- 
tor snorting loudly, and looking toward Warmouth, 
he beheld it standing motionless in the middle of the 
road at the foot of the steep hill, and recognised 
196 


THE DEED 


197 


Harry Leighton, who, with his valet, was examining 
anxiously the left front wheel. When Tom and the 
dog came up, Harry turned upon them a rueful face. 

“ The tyre’s burst and we have not time to put 
on another. It was entirely new. I can’t account 
for it, and I must try to catch my train.” 

“ All right,” cried Tom, “ let us run for it. It 
is only a quarter of a mile.” 

“ But the luggage ! ” said Harry. “ I can’t leave 
that; at least Mason must carry this brown valise, 
and it is heavy.” 

At this moment two things happened. The chauf- 
feur, who was on his way to the village to bring back 
the car came in sight walking along the path which 
led out of the park, at the foot of the cliff on the 
inland side. He at once took charge of the motor, 
proceeding to strip off the punctured tyre, and at the 
same instant Harry perceived a butcher’s cart com- 
ing from Warmouth toward them. The driver of 
the cart gladly turned about to take him and the 
valet and luggage to the station ; and they set off at a 
round pace, the small horse breaking into a canter, 
as the cart jolted over the stony road. 

“ I’ll make the train all right,” shouted Harry, 
waving his hand to Tom, through a cloud of dust. 
“ We’ll be just in time, and the guard will hold it for 
me a minute or two.” 

Tom, turning away, was about to retrace his steps 
to the beach when he heard the chauffeur, who mean- 


198 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

time had been inspecting the ruptured tyre, give vent 
to a half-smothered oath. 

“ Damned if I ever saw the like! ” was what he 
said. 

Tom joined him and took an observation, which 
revealed a perceptible slit in the rubber. The chauf- 
feur squeezed it, and out dropped a small, smooth 
pebble. 

“ That is what did it, I suppose,” said Tom, who 
had no knowledge of motor-cars. 

“That!” exclaimed the chauffeur contemptu- 
ously, turning over the small, smooth stone in the 
palm of his hand. “ Why there’s not a sharp or a 
rough place on it. You might as well say a boiled 
pea could do it.” 

“ What happened then? ” asked Tom. 

“ I’m blessed if I can tell,” rejoined the chauffeur. 
“ That slit is as clean as if it had been made by the 
jab of a sharp, strong steel blade. The stone 
worked into the hole afterward on the road. My 
word, but it is a good thing it did ! ” he continued, 
looking up the steep road to the top of the cliff. 
“ For if the tyre had collapsed up there, Master 
Harry’d have gone over the cliff, sure ! ” 

“ How long does it take for the air to escape after 
a puncture? ” asked Tom. 

“ With the car going at high speed, about five 
minutes maybe,” said the chauffeur. “ But I can 
tell you one thing sure , sir. That tyre is new and 


THE DEED 


199 

it was all right when the car left the garage a half 
hour ago ! ” 

At this moment footsteps were heard on the path 
leading from the park, and the tall form of Sir 
Christopher Leighton (who had evidently set off on 
a “ promenade digestive ” just after Harry’s de- 
parture) hove in sight. He hastened forward as 
soon as he espied Tom and the chauffeur bending 
over the motor. 

“ Good God ! ” he cried, growing livid in the face, 
and with blood-shot eyes starting from their sock- 
ets. “ Has there been an accident ? Where is 
Harry? ” 

“ Nothing much,” said Tom, looking at him 
keenly. “ A tyre burst, at the foot of the hill, and 
Harry had to take a passing wagon to the station.” 

Sir Christopher’s livid face changed to a crimson 
red and a look of baffled rage surged into it, the same 
look that he sometimes had when a wounded stag 
escaped him after long pursuit, and a wish to kill 
had mastered him. 

“ It might have happened on the hill ! ” was all he 
said. 

“ If it had,” rejoined Tom, “ Harry would have 
been dead.” 

The two men looked at each other for a moment. 
Sir Christopher with suspicion and Tom trying to 
seem unconscious. Then Sir Christopher shrugged 
his broad shoulders, and, with his hands in his 


200 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


pockets, strolled back along the foot-path toward the 
park; and Tom calling his dog sauntered away whis- 
tling. The chauffeur threw down the punctured tyre 
and began to put on another one. 

“ Damned if I know what slit it like that ! ” he 
said again. 

Sir Christopher departed from Ravenshurst that 
evening in the limousine motor-car, in time to reach 
the station at Barchester before the seven o’clock 
train from London. Having dismissed the chauf- 
feur with a munificent tip, Sir Christopher walked 
restlessly up and down the platform awaiting the 
fast express, for which Balters bought “ two tickets ; 
one first class and one second, single.” 

The weather had turned damp and rainy since 
four o’clock, and the wind whipped and splashed the 
heavy drops against the closed windows of the rail- 
way carriage in which Sir Christopher sat alone and 
brooding, his face looking as evil as his thoughts. 
Since the afternoon a raging fever seemed to possess 
him; the determination of a man bent upon success 
at any price. 

“ I have failed twice,” he muttered, “ once through 
my own foolish weakness, and once through a chance 
pebble. Next time there shall be no question of fail- 
ure ! I swear it ! ” 


CHAPTER XXI 



HE next morning, Friday, Tom Broadhurst 


had a short interview with Balters at the side 


door of Sir Christopher’s big town house. 

“ He is upstairs, sir,” said Balters, “ in his library, 
lying on the big lounge. He has a raging head- 
ache, he says, and he has got a wet compress tied 
on his head with a towel.” 

The good old servant touched Tom’s coat-sleeve. 

“ It is his brain that is gone wrong? ” he asked be- 
seechingly. “ Is not it, sir ? ” 

“ I think so,” answered Tom. “ Don’t worry, we 
will try to cure him. But will he stay in all day ? ” 

“ He says so, sir,” answered Balters. “ I’m to 
make him some strong tea and boil him an egg for 
his luncheon, and if he feels up to it he says he will 
dine quietly at his club.” 

“ Keep an eye on him,” warned Tom. “If he 
goes to the club you be on the watch when he comes 
out and be sure to follow him; make certain that 
he goes home.” 

“ I will, sir,” said Balters. 

“ Mr. Harry dines with me to-night, and I hope 


201 


202 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


will leave for Paris on the early train to-morrow 
morning.” 

Sir Christopher left his house at about seven 
o’clock that night, telling Balters that he should dine 
at his club and come home before ten, “ but don’t sit 
up, or else go out yourself,” he added. “ I have got 
the latch-key and I shan’t need you at all to-night.” 

Before ten o’clock that night the anxious Balters, 
unable to bear any suspense, decided to go to the 
club, which wa^ nearby, and make sure of Sir Chris- 
topher’s presence there. He had a telegram from 
Constance in his pocket as an excuse. 

“ I’ll say I thought he might want to answer it at 
the club,” said Balters, pleased with his own astute- 
ness, “ and after that I can wait round until he comes 
out.” 

Sir Christopher was seated, reading a newspaper, 
when an attendant came in. 

“If you please, Sir Christopher,” he said, “ your 
servant is below. When I asked if he had any mes- 
sage, he said that he wanted to speak to you him- 
self.” 

“ Tell him I have gone home,” retorted Sir Chris- 
topher promptly, “ half an hour ago.” 

When the astonished servant had given this mes- 
sage to Balters, the latter went out at once and re- 
traced his steps. 

“ He certainly had not got home when I left,” he 


THE DEED 


203 


thought, “ and however did it happen that I did not 
meet him ? ” But Sir Christopher had not returned 
when his terrified servant reached Leighton House, 
and Balters cowered at the attic window of his room 
not knowing where else to go or what to do. 

That night, Harry having dined with Tom Broad- 
hurst in Tom’s rooms, the whole evening afterwards 
was spent in a careful discussion of Sir Christopher’s 
malady. 

“To me, as an expert, your uncle is a problem,” 
said Tom. “ It is unusual to find a man of his age, 
who has always led the normal life of an English 
country gentleman, and without the shadow of a 
worry — not even the most ordinary anxieties of 
life — suddenly go to pieces. There is no appar- 
ent physical disease whatever, and no mental dis- 
turbance, that can account for it. One would hardly 
expect the genial Utopian * views ’ of Professor 
Wilson to make a blaze that sets off an anarchist 
bombshell in the brain of a twentieth-century Eng- 
lishman.” 

“ How extremes touch,” said Harry. “ These 
serene humanitarians sow what they call ‘ good seed ’ 
and raise a hurricane. All this has happened before ; 
it is not new in history. Anacharsis Cloots, ‘ the 
crabbed old friend of man,’ did not foresee the Reign 
of Terror for which he was partly responsible.” 

I believe you are right,” said Tom, who was 


204 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


walking up and down the room, pulling at his short 
pipe and talking in snatches. He stopped before a 
book-shelf and took down a red-bound book. 

“ I don’t confine myself to medical books in my 
studies. Sometimes a clear mind, not professional, 
is a great help to a man in my specialty: Chesterton 
is one of my authorities, and many a true word does 
he speak in apparent jest. A great mind, Harry, 
and he will be a great force when he simmers down 
a bit and grows older.” 

“ I’m hoping for him to be a great Catholic force, 
some day, when the fermentation of youth subsides,” 
said Harry. “ No one with his wonderful concep- 
tion of God and of religion can fail (unless he wil- 
fully shuts his own eyes) to see that our Christian 
civilization can only be saved by the Catholic 
Church.” 

“ We won’t discuss that, because there we don’t 
quite agree,” said Tom, laughing, as he turned over 
the pages in his hand. “ Listen to this,” he said. 
“ These are some of the phrases I have marked 
to-day which recall what I said to you yesterday, and 
express what I meant better than I did and in fewer 
words,” and Tom, turning the leaves, read: “ ‘ Cur- 
ing a madman is not arguing with a philosopher ; it 
is casting out a devil.’ There is exactly my opinion 
about your Uncle Christopher; and listen to this: 
* Mysticism keeps men sane ; as long as you have 
mystery you have health. When you destroy mys- 


THE DEED 


205 


tery you create morbidity/ That last remark/’ Tom 
said, “ strikes full and clear upon a fundamental 
truth. The ‘ well-meant infamy ’ of the good Pro- 
fessor Wilson and of the rest of the great army of 
Progressivism and Eugenic Science, and all the other 
godless fads which aim to destroy the supernatural, 
will end by unchaining the latent lunacy of the 
world, and its liberators will be blown into space with 
everything else. For chaos shall come again ! ” 

“ Now we come back to the Catholic Church once 
more,” said Harry, “ as the only hope for the fu- 
ture. But meanwhile,” and Harry got up as he 
spoke, “ I am off to-morrow afternoon for Saint- 
Lambert.” 

“ Can’t you leave by the early train and catch the 
ten o’clock boat at Dover?” asked Tom anxiously. 
“ You must not run any risk, and you are really 
not safe until you get away from England.” 

“ I have some things that I must attend to to- 
morrow morning,” said Harry. “ I have to see the 
Padre Alvarez and arrange finally about the wed- 
ding. You know I did not expect to leave for an- 
other ten days; and I have to see my lawyer, too. 

I am going to send Mason over in the early boat 
with all my luggage ; and then I shall be quite foot- 
loose, and shall get to Paris at seven o’clock, in time 
to cross over to the Gare de Lyon, and take the eight 
o’clock train to Saint-Lambert. Look out for 
Uncle Christopher and try to cure him. Cast out 


206 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


the devil that Professor Wilson has raised, for I’m 
sure there is nothing else wrong with him ; ” and 
Harry went out, smiling and happy, into the moon- 
light. 

But Tom shook his head. 

“I am worried, ,, he said to himself, “but there 
is no use dogging him. The faithful Balters will 
have an eye on Sir Christopher to-night and prevent 
any positive mischief, and I shall drop in to break- 
fast with Harry in the morning, go with him in 
a cab wherever he goes, and wait outside; for I 
am determined not to lose sight of Harry to-morrow 
until I see him safely off at the station.” 

Meanwhile Sir Christopher waited deliberately 
at the club until the clock struck eleven. 

He then went forth into the night and after a 
brisk walk found himself upon the Thames Embank- 
ment. Here he lingered as though by calculation, 
and looked curiously at the few pedestrians who 
came toward him in the moonlight. 

Long after midnight, Balters, shivering in the 
darkness on a sleepless bed, heard a cab drive up to 
the front door of Leighton House, and his master 
letting himself in. 


CHAPTER XXII 


C ONSTANCE and her aunt Louisa sat in the 
long picture-gallery at Leighton Towers next 
day. It was a dull, dark afternoon, and Constance 
was bending low over a wide embroidery- frame 
mounted on a stand, in the deep recess of a bay- 
window. Lady Louisa sat beside her on a low chair, 
placidly knitting white wool. Outside, the heavy 
clouds hung low over the hills, and a dreary rain, 
like hopeless tears, dropped silently. The light was 
so dim that Constance stopped now and then, be- 
fore putting the bright-coloured worsted, with which 
she was working, through the needle’s eye, and 
gazed abstractedly at the portraits that hung along 
the wall opposite the window at which she sat. 

“ I wish Papa would come,” said she. “ He has 
been away so long, and he thinks of going to Scot- 
land next week. 

“ He telephoned to have the motor meet him at 
half-past three. It is time he was here, and our 
friends will all be arriving on the five o’clock train.” 

As she spoke, a distant horn broke the silence, fol- 
lowed by a panting breath that came nearer and 
nearer, as the big Mercedes limousine rushed madly 
207 


208 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


up the long winding avenue through the park, past 
the green lawns bordered by the blaze of autumn 
flowers, and drew up snorting before the front of 
the house. 

“ I feel somehow as if something is wrong,” said 
Constance, who had gone to the window. “ Papa 
has not greeted the servants or the dogs, and he 
looks perfectly awful.” 

She turned away, and running fast through the 
long gallery, met her father at the head of the wide 
staircase. Sir Christopher did indeed look “ aw- 
ful.” He did not touch the girl, or smile, as she 
leaned towards him, poised on the edge of the step 
like a butterfly, — blue eyes, golden hair, and muslin 
frills all dancing in the flare of light switched on by 
the footman from below with a kind of stage effect. 
The sudden blaze flashed on Sir Christopher’s hag- 
gard face and shifting eyes, the rumpled shirt-front 
and cravat pulled awry. 

“Good God, Papa! What can be the matter?” 
cried the butterfly, starting backward. 

“ Your cousin Harry is dead,” said Sir Christo- 
pher in a dull monotone. “ I wired from London 
this morning to our guests not to come, but I did 
not, of course, say why. Nothing must be said, 
mind you, to any one until the body is found.” 

“ What do you mean, Papa ? Harry dead ? ” 

Lady Louisa, who had just approached from the 
gallery, heard these words. 


THE DEED 


209 


“ Harry dead ! ” she repeated. “ How ? ” 

“ He drowned himself in the Thames last night,” 
answered the same dull voice. 

“ But he could not have killed himself ; he was 
so happy ! ” cried Constance, in a voice that was a 
shriek. 

By this time she was following Sir Christopher 
down the corridor that led to his own room, toward 
which he was walking steadily. Lady Louisa hov- 
ered in the rear, trying to hear what was said. 

“ No sane man would kill himself,” Sir Christo- 
pher answered, turning about as he reached his 
bedroom door. “ Harry Leighton was stark, star- 
ing mad! Don’t ask any more questions now,” he 
went on peremptorily ; “ the whole thing has quite 
unnerved me. They are searching for the body and 
will telephone. There was nothing I could do, and 
so I came away. It happened late last night.” 

“ But Harry was not crazy ! ” shrieked little Con- 
stance, quite beside herself. 

Sir Christopher had opened the door of his bed- 
room ; he turned and glared at her. 

“ He belonged to a mad Church,” he snarled, 
“ capable of any excess. It is better for him!” 
And he slammed the door. 

Constance, turning about, threw herself into 
Lady Louisa’s arms, and the two women cried and 
sobbed hysterically. Hearing a soft step in the cor- 
ridor where they were standing, they looked up and 


2io SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


beheld old Balters, the valet, carrying his master's 
bag and coat. 

“ Oh, Balters, how dreadful ! ” sobbed Lady Lou- 
isa. “ How ever did this happen ? ” 

“ I don’t know, my lady. Sir Christopher dined 
out last night. He told me not to sit up, but I was 
awake and heard him come in after one o’clock. 
This morning when I brought his hot water at eight 
o’clock he seemed dazed-like, lying in bed awake, 
and he says to me : * Balters, Mr. Harry has 

drowned himself. We were walking home to- 
gether,’ he says, ‘ on the Embankment, when he 
sprang over the parapet. I looked over it in the 
moonlight, and there was no sign of him in the 
water.’ That is all he said to me, my lady, and I did 
not dare to ask if any search was made or any alarm 
given. Sir Christopher will maybe tell you him- 
self. He is in a queer state, is Sir Christopher, — 
not himself at all this long time! ” and poor Balters 
paused, hesitating at the end of the corridor, won- 
dering if he ought to say more, and in fear and 
dread as to what his master might do next. 

Sir Christopher’s door opened just a crack. 

“ Bring those things in at once, Balters, and stop 
talking ! ” cried his master from behind it. 

The two women went to their rooms and cried. 
They were a woeful sight at eight o’clock when the 
gong rang for dinner. Lady Louisa’s usually pink 


THE DEED 


21 1 


face was speckled red and white and her kind eyes 
dim with tears. Poor little Constance looked like 
a frightened bird. They were waiting in the library 
for Sir Christopher. A firm step sounded on the 
floor of the lounge hall and the master of Leighton 
Towers stood in the doorway — not the draggled 
and weary man who had come home three hours 
before, but a spic-and-span gentleman carefully 
dressed, and with a smile upon his lips, which just 
showed the points of two tusk-like teeth. 

“ Poor things! ” he said at sight of the drooping 
woman. “ It is awful for you, I know, but we 
must do our best to be brave and to face the facts. 
Constance, my dear, you must drink a glass of cham- 
pagne, and, Louisa, if you would take just a drop to 
cheer you ! ” 

“Oh, Papa, you never did care for Harry !” 
Constance burst forth reproachfully as they took 
their seats at the table. 

Sir Christopher gave her a sharp look from two 
slits of narrowed eyelids. 

“ I never pretended to care as much as you did,” 
he said ; “ but you surely can’t mean that I was not 
kind to the boy.” 

“ Indeed no, Papa dear,” said the contrite girl ; 
“ nobody could have been kinder, and it was so good 
of you to give up the shooting last week and go to 
help him.” 


2i2 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


Sir Christopher winced slightly. 

“ Was poor Harry ill all that time? You did not 
speak of it when you wrote.” 

“ He was not ill ; he was queer ; talked extrava- 
gantly about his religion and all that bosh. He has 
a fool friend, a doctor named Broadhurst, who really 
seemed to egg him on to say extravagant things. 
That fellow is a ‘ brain expert/ too.” 

“ I’ve seen Tom Broadhurst,” said Constance, 
“ and he is very nice, — so are the Bishop and Lady 
Caroline Broadhurst. Was Tom in London with 
Harry, too, Papa? ” 

“ I believe they met there/’ said Sir Christopher. 
“ I went up to London, because I was worried about 
Harry’s being there alone, day-before-yesterday. 
How long ago it seems ! ” he added, tossing off a 
glass of champagne. 

Balters appeared noiselessly at the open doorway 
of the dining-room and beckoned silently to the but- 
ler, who had refilled Sir Christopher’s glass. Sir 
Christopher’s back was to the door, but Constance 
and Lady Louisa looked eagerly at the two men, 
as Balters whispered in the ear of the butler. That 
dignified person came back and said quietly: 

“If you please, Sir Christopher, you are wanted 
at the telephone by Dr. Broadhurst.” 

Sir Christopher upset his glass and almost upset 
his chair. The telephone was in the library ; thither 


THE DEED 


213 

he went, closely followed by Lady Louisa and Con- 
stance. 

“ Helloa ! ” called Sir Christopher, and then lis- 
tened intently. “Yes! This is Sir Christopher 
Leighton, — and what is it? Broadhurst? Yes! 
Have you any news of poor Harry? ” 

As Sir Christopher listened his face turned grey 
and red by turns. 

“Found, you think , and alive!” These words 
dropped from his livid lips. 

“ You’ll let me know to-night after you’ve been 
to the hospital, if it is not Harry?” was his next 
question, and his brows met in a lowering frown. 

“ Very well,” he called again. “ Thank you for 
giving me some hope! If I don’t hear to the con- 
trary, then, I will go up to-morrow morning on the 
nine o’clock train from Barchester, and see you at 
the hospital at about half-past eleven.” 

Sir Christopher hung up the audiphone and 
turned a face which he strove to make joyful, twist- 
ing his mouth into a wry smile, toward Constance 
and Lady Louisa, who stood shivering at the door. 

“ Broadhurst thinks that Harry Leighton may 
have been found alive,” he said. “ He has just 
heard of a case in the Accident Ward at St. 
Thomas’s Hospital — fished out of the river last 
night by a passing barge — and he is going there to- 
night to find out. He says that he will telephone 


214 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


at once if it is not Harry, and that if we do not 
hear from him by ten o’clock to-night, we may be 
sure that dear Harry has been saved, and I shall 
take the early train from Barchester.” 

“ Why does not Dr. Broadhurst telephone in 
either case ? ” asked Constance. 

“ Doctors are busy men,” answered her father. 
“ If we don’t get a message we may feel sure that 
dear Harry has been saved. Let us finish our din- 
ner and have some music afterward,” and Sir Chris- 
topher, muttering under his breath, followed the 
ladies back to the dining-room. 

“ It can’t be Harry! ” he said to himself. 

However, as ten o’clock came, and no call to the 
telephone, Sir Christopher tried to smile at Con- 
stance when she started up from the piano, where 
she had been playing nervously for an hour the most 
cheerful things she could think of to keep up her 
spirits. 

“ It is Harry ! It is Harry ! ” she cried. “ God 
grant he is not much hurt ! ” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


O N that same Saturday morning Tom Broad- 
hurst had walked bright and early to Harry’s 
rooms to breakfast. The door was opened by Ma- 
son, sleepless and anxious. 

“Are you alone, sir?” 

“ Certainly,” answered Tom. “ Your master ex- 
pects me to breakfast. Did he not tell you? ” 

“ For the Lord’s sake, Doctor ! ” gasped Mason, 
staggering backward, “ Mr. Harry is not here, sir. 
He never came home last night. I thought he 
might have stayed with you, sir.” 

Without a word, Tom turned and fled like a man 
distraught, down the stairs and into the street, 
where he jumped into a passing untenanted hansom 
without stopping it, and told the amazed cabby to 
drive like fury to Saint Thomas’s Hospital. 

" That is the best thing to do,” he thought, as he 
leaned back and shut his eyes tight. “ I can tele- 
phone from there in every direction, and inquire at 
all the police-stations and the other hospitals.” 
Tom clenched his fists until the knuckles whitened, 
and his breath hissed through his set teeth as he 
beat a tattoo with his feet upon the floor. 

215 


216 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


Before the cab stopped at the Hospital he sprang 
out, flinging a yellow coin to the driver, and was on 
the point of dashing up the steps when, suddenly 
remembering professional decorum, he drew a long 
breath and deliberately mounted the steps, and he 
passed the swinging-door looking much as usual, 
alert and quiet. Tom also received without appar- 
ent excitement the information that a young man, 
dressed in evening clothes and wearing a light over- 
coat, had been fished out of the Thames, on the 
other side of the river, by a passing barge shortly 
after midnight, and now lay unconscious in a pri- 
vate room in the accident ward. 

“ He will be all right if his skull is not cracked/’ 
said a young interne , meeting Tom at the door. 
“We got back his respiration, and there’s no more 
water inside of him.” 

The nurse rose from the bedside as Tom ap- 
proached. “ I think he is coming to himself, Doc- 
tor,” she said, and stepped aside. 

There, sure enough, lay Harry Leighton, with a 
bandaged head and a face as white as the pillow. 
Tom went on his knees beside the bed and a dry 
sob shook him. Then he proceeded quietly to his 
professional examination, taking a stethoscope first 
from the nurse’s hand. 

“ His heart is all right,” Tom pronounced with a 
sigh of relief. 


THE DEED 217 

“ Do you know him, sir ? ” asked the nurse, eye- 
ing Tom curiously. 

“ No,” answered Tom promptly. 

“ He is a handsome young gentleman,” she re- 
joined. The nurse was pretty and wore a smart 
cap. 

“ He is,” said Tom, replacing the bandage which 
he had taken off, “ and I am glad to say that his 
head is all right. He has only been stunned by the 
blow. Now you may go, and come back in a half- 
hour with his breakfast.” 

When Harry began to know anything at all about 
himself, he was conscious of an aching in all his 
bones, and of a pain, always dull and heavy and at 
intervals sharp like a knife-slash, in his left temple 
just above the eyebrow. Harry also noticed that 
a bandage and a compress swathed that side of his 
head and obscured his left eye. Out of a half-open 
right eye he next became aware of Tom Broadhurst 
seated at the bedside, holding in a firm grip his limp 
left hand. 

“ What is up ? ” asked Harry feebly. 

Tom’s eyes gleamed with joy and he showed his 
white teeth that shone whiter for their tanned and 
freckled setting. His red hair seemed to bristle 
with pleasure, both scientific and personal. 

“ You’re all right, old boy! ” he said, with a fin- 
ger on Harry’s pulse. “ You have had a nasty 


218 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


fall, and your head is pretty badly cut, but there 
is no fracture of the skull and no serious brain con- 
cussion. I was afraid of both when I first laid eyes 
upon you. It is a wonderful escape considering 
what a fall you had. How on earth did you tumble 
into the water? When you left me your head was 
level enough and you had your wits about you.” 

While Tom talked, without stopping for an an- 
swer to his question, he peered straight into Harry’s 
eyes as if to see how clear the brain behind them 
might be, and as if with a purpose to fix Harry’s 
attention and catch as much information as he could, 
on the wing, in case his patient should retire again 
to unconsciousness and possible delirium. Harry 
feebly resented this effort to arouse him. He felt 
tired out and sleepy, and his ears roared like the 
thunder of a great cataract. Odd memories seemed 
to float on the edge and then tumble over, and whirl 
in a dark pool below. Nothing hung together. 

“ When I left you — ” he said slowly. 

“ Yes ! ” said Tom sharply, pinching the hand he 
still held, and staring hard into Harry’s dreamy 
right eye, which seemed scarcely to recognize him 
as his soul groped in its prison. 

Harry spoke again : “ I started all right, and 

then I saw the moon come out from a cloud — and 
I saw the silver light making tracks on the water 
lazily following in the wake of a black barge, and 
I saw a ruddy necklace of lamps glittering and 


THE DEED 


219 


shimmering in the water under the dark span of the 
bridge, — and I remember I thought of my moth- 
er's diamond necklace that I am taking to Melanie 
as a wedding gift. It was also my father's wed- 
ding gift to my dear mother. It is very beautiful 
— fit for Melanie — ” 

The broken sentences came less and less dis- 
tinctly, and with a happy smile Harry closed his 
eyes and seemed to be sinking into a comatose sleep. 
But Tom would not allow it. He pinched and 
shook Harry’s hand again and stooped nearer to 
him. 

“What next?” he asked in two staccato notes. 

There was a pause. Then suddenly Harry’s vis- 
ible eye opened wide with a stare of horror, and he 
spoke in the dull voice of a hypnotized subject. 

“ I was looking at the water from the Embank- 
ment, and some one came suddenly up behind me.” 

“ Who was it? ” repeated Tom in the same tone 
as before. 

“ I turned quickly around,” pursued the dull voice, 
“ when a stinging blow half stunned me, and two 
arms were thrown about my knees, lifting me from 
the ground. I toppled head first into the water be- 
low. I could not struggle nor cry out — for I had 
seen the face of my Uncle Christopher! ” 

Harry’s eye lost its fixed stare; the lid fell, and 
this time Tom let him lie still. 

“ I’ve got the truth from his own lips now,” he 


220 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


said to himself, gently putting the hand he had held 
back upon the coverlet. “If he has any fever or 
delirium to cloud his memory later I should not be 
so sure of the facts. No wonder his nerves have 
had such a shock ! ” 

“ I wish I could decide,” thought Tom as he 
walked out of the hospital, “ whether to keep Har- 
ry^ escape a secret for the present from Uncle 
Christopher, or let him know at once. It seems 
dreadful to allow any man to believe himself to be 
a murderer when he has failed, whether he be sane or 
insane. Til go to the house before luncheon, at 
any rate, and find out from Balters how his mas- 
ter gave him the slip last night.” 

But Tom, at one o’clock, found Leighton House 
entirely empty, and after ringing twice in vain, he 
turned away, feeling sure that Sir Christopher and 
Balters must have returned to Leighton Towers, so 
he drove home at once in a taxi-cab. 

At half-past one o’clock he had just begun to de- 
vour a hasty meal in his rooms, when a letter was 
brought to him, sent by a special messenger from 
Sir Christopher’s club. When Tom had read this 
letter through twice he lighted a cigar and sat down 
to think hard. 

“ By Jove ! ” he said to himself, “ this is the worst 
thing Sir Christopher has done yet.” 

The letter was a long one. Sir Christopher be- 
gan by confiding to Tom (“as dear Harry’s best 


THE DEED 


221 


friend and also so experienced in mental troubles ”) 
all the anxiety which he had suffered on the sub- 
ject of Harry’s strange behaviour since the shock 
of his father’s death, which began to show itself 
the week following in inordinate excitement over 
any discussion or argument about religion. 
Notably, Professor Wilson’s clear and dispassionate 
and convincing explanations and arguments seemed 
to excite Harry almost to frenzy, — “ far more,” Sir 
Christopher wrote, “ than could be expected even 
from the most bigoted and fanatic papist; though 
I consider them all to be off their heads more or less. 
You yourself, my dear doctor, must have noticed 
this unnatural and feverish irritability on poor Har- 
ry’s part last Tuesday night, when you dined with 
us at Ravenshurst.” 

Sir Christopher went on to explain that he had 
gone there on a visit to Harry, at great personal in- 
convenience, solely in order to try to straighten out 
matters connected with the estate, which were quite 
muddled by his “ poor brother Gerald’s ” lax in- 
attention, and over which Harry, who had never 
before had any such responsibilities, was “ morbidly 
brooding.” Tom clenched his teeth and scowled at 
the letter, and he shook his head as he slowly read 
what follows, which I transcribe. 

“ Feeling the weight of this great anxiety, and 
my own personal responsibility as his next-of-kin, 
when Harry in a furtive and suspicious manner an- 


222 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


nounced on Wednesday his sudden departure to 
London to be gone a day or two, I decided at once 
that I should follow him by the next train ; in order 
to watch over the poor boy and keep him from harm, 
if possible. Yesterday I lay on the lounge at home 
all day, with a splitting headache, caused by worry- 
ing over poor Harry, — an unheard-of thing for me. 
For the first time in my life I really began to be con- 
scious of nerves. Balters, whom I sent to Harry’s 
rooms to inquire, brought back word that he was 
dining with you at eight o’clock. I dressed and 
went to the club to dinner. I tried a game of bridge 
to quiet my nerves. My friends rallied me on my 
unusual absence of mind and irritability. How- 
ever, I got through the time somehow until eleven 
o’clock. At that hour I resolved to walk toward 
your rooms, with the likelihood of meeting Harry 
and explaining to him that I had decided, after he 
left, to run up to London on business, and that I 
should return with him to Ravenshurst. 

“ Except for some swiftly-passing clouds there 
was bright moonlight. I felt sure that Harry (who 
hates cabs) would walk home along the Embank- 
ment after crossing the bridge. I had been stroll- 
ing slowly for about an hour when I came to the 
obelisk and stood for a moment in its shadow, look- 
ing toward the parapet. There, distinct in the 
moonlight, I saw Harry himself, standing still and 
leaning over, gazing fixedly down at the river. 


THE DEED 


223 


Seized with apprehension, I sprang forward and 
noiselessly approached him, for I felt that I knew 
what he would do next. My worst forebodings 
were realized. Swiftly and silently, before I could 
even cry out, he swung his legs over the parapet, 
and fell with a heavy splash into the river. 

“ I leaned over from the spot where he had stood. 
There was nothing to be seen. He never rose again. 
For all I know he may have planned it all before- 
hand and stupefied himself with morphia or some 
other poison, for there was no struggle. I saw at 
once the hopelessness of giving any alarm, situated 
as I was, alone and at midnight. Not a soul had 
come by during this terrible quarter-of-an-hour. 
Above all things, too, any publicity, any notice in 
the newspapers, must be avoided, for the sake of 
everybody. Absolutely nothing must be known to 
any one outside of my own immediate family at 
Leighton Towers. In these dreadful times, when 
the press spares no one, and nothing is sacred, one 
can’t be too careful to keep out of the newspapers. 

“ I shall not even notify the Marquis de Vaud- 
reuil and his daughter, until poor Harry is found. 
Lady Bolton is on the point of going to them, I be- 
lieve — I don’t know if Sydney takes her as far 
as Paris or not. They must also know nothing of 
this terrible event until the body is found, and then, 
my dear Dr. Broadhurst, we must insist that it was 
an accident and not suicide. Perhaps you could say 


224 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


something about the poor boy having taken a little 
too much champagne at dinner? But all this is 
later on. 

“ I must go back on the one o’clock train to Leigh- 
ton Towers, and break the sad news to Constance 
and Lady Louisa, from whom I should not be jus- 
tified in keeping the truth, and on whose discretion 
I can absolutely rely. They would never allow it 
to be suspected even that poor Harry was a suicide. 

“ I feel completely upset, as I never have been be- 
fore in my whole life. I must go home and get my 
wits together. I depend on you, dear Dr. Broad- 
hurst, to make every necessary inquiry, and to notify 
me at once by telephone when the body is found, 
which might happen even to-day ! ” 

Tom paused and flicked a long ash from his cigar. 
“ He is bad,” he said to himself. “ This letter is 
too ingenious and too plausible for madness. The 
horror of it is that he really believes that he has mur- 
dered Harry, and he is evidently pleased. Harry 
is, for Sir Christopher, an ‘ undesirable unit 9 ; I will 
see if I can worry him into a more decent frame of 
mind. I shall telephone to him to-night that ‘ a 
body 9 has been picked up, alive but unconscious, 
and I shall leave him in doubt as to whether the per- 
son is Harry or not. If he has any conscience at 
all left in him this may awaken it. There will be 
something for Sir Christopher to worry over, at 
any rate, and I want to worry him ! ” 


THE DEED 


225 


Tom picked up his guitar and strummed gaily for 
an hour, as he always did when he wished to get his 
mind off any professional problems for a while. 
“ It helps one’s brain control,” he used to say, “ to 
be able to drop serious matters altogether for an 
hour or so every day and concentrate one’s mind 
upon unimportant things. Music is my daily dis- 
traction, or a chapter from a thrilling detective 
story. One can’t be a great man all the time. 
Mediocrity points a finger always at any human 
weakness in a hero, not having the sense to discern 
that it helps a man’s greatness to have sometimes 
complete relaxation. Frederick the Great played 
the flute, the great Napoleon played chess, I play 
the guitar, and I think I have seen it asserted that 
the great American, Daniel Webster’s relaxation 
was a whiskey-bottle. — Chacun a son gout! ” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


W HEN Tom Broadhurst came in that night to 
take a look at Harry, he found him sleep- 
ing peaceably, his breathing regular and his face 
no longer flushed. Tom laid a cautious finger on 
the hand that lay inert and relaxed on the coverlet. 

“ He’s all right,” he said to the nurse. “ No fe- 
ver and no nerve disturbance. It was only a severe 
nervous shock, from a stunning blow, but no frac- 
ture and no concussion.” 

“ He has been quiet all day, sir, according to the 
report,” said the night nurse. “ He woke only once 
or twice just long enough to take some nourish- 
ment.” 

Tom went home whistling gaily under his breath. 
“Thank God it is no worse,” he said; “but the 
problem of Sir Christopher remains, and I cannot 
make up my mind without consulting Harry what 
is to be done with him. Of course Harry must be 
got off to France as fast as possible. And equally 
of course, I shan’t let his uncle see him to-morrow 
when he comes to the hospital. But just what is 
to be done to that eccentric person as a warning or 
as a punishment, Harry himself must decide. Sir 
226 


THE DEED 


227 


Christopher ought to be shut up, for a time at any 
rate, — there is no doubt about that; whether in a 
sanatorium or a penitentiary matters not to me per- 
sonally. But of course I feel certain that Harry 
will not prosecute, and, at all hazards, we must keep 
the whole matter out of the newspapers. How to 
incarcerate ‘ Uncle Christopher ’ without some sort 
of legal interference is the difficulty.” 

Early next morning Tom found Harry awake 
and alert at seven o’clock, just as the night nurse 
went off duty and his breakfast had arrived. 
Harry thanked the departing attendant for watch- 
ing over him while he slept, which was all that she 
had had to do. 

“ My dear fellow,” he said to Tom, “ I don’t 
want any more nursing, — I’m going to get up.” 

“ I don’t see why you should not,” said Tom, “ if 
you feel strong enough. You’ve had a pretty severe 
nervous shock, and that cut over your forehead will 
take some little time to heal although it needed no 
stitches. All things considered, my dear boy, 
you’ve escaped most luckily. I’ve got to face your 
uncle this morning. He’ll be here at about half-past 
eleven, if he takes the nine o’clock train from Bar- 
chester.” 

As Tom spoke Harry’s face flushed scarlet and 
his big brown eyes were on fire. 

“For God’s sake! You have not told him!” 

“ Certainly,” said Tom, “ he is your next of kin. 


228 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


Since you seem to be so fit, I am going to tell you 
the whole truth, Harry. Your uncle sent me yes- 
terday a very plausible letter, containing his version 
of what happened. It is the worst thing he has 
done, my boy, showing more moral responsibility, 
more of a desire to clear his own skirts, than a bona 
fide madman ever displays. I debated in my mind 
what to do, and decided to telephone to him last 
night, that a man (possibly yourself) had been res- 
cued alive from the river, and was in the accident 
ward at St. Thomas’s. I said I had not yet been 
there and could not gather from the description 
whether it was you or not, but it might be. Sir 
Christopher said he would be in London at eleven 
o’clock this morning and go straight to the hospital. 
I said that if it proved to be somebody else I would 
telephone late last night, but that if it were really 
you, I would send no message. I sent none.” 

Harry sat up. 

“ But,” he gasped, “ he will know that I am 
here ! ” 

“ Not at all,” answered Tom placidly. “ He will 
think so until I see him, and then I will tell him he 
misunderstood the telephone last night; that I said 
I would let him know if the 'body’ was yourself. 
One can do all sorts of things about telephones. 
You see, Harry, I could not decide definitely this 
morning without consulting you. If you want to 


THE DEED 


229 

be dead to Uncle Christopher for the present, you 
shall be dead.” 

“ What a liar you are, Tom ! ” cried Harry, smil- 
ing in spite of himself. “ I never knew it before.” 

“ My dear boy, I am a professional man, that is 
all. Call things by their right names; a doctor 
simply has to tell lies, — white lies. After all, you 
must take the responsibility yourself as to what is 
to be said and done to your uncle. I wash my hands 
of him. He may have some compunction left, — he 
proved it last Wednesday, in fact, when he snatched 
from you the poisoned coffee and threw it away.” 

“ How about Thursday?” asked Harry. “Did 
he seem relieved about the pebble in the motor 
tyre?” Harry seemed not inclined to be lenient. 

“ No,” Tom admitted rather ruefully. “ I must 
confess that he seemed bitterly disappointed on that 
occasion.” 

Tom got up and paced the room restlessly. 

“ I don’t deny that he is dangerous,” he said, 
“ but it is so hard to treat him under the circum- 
stances. You want to keep the whole thing quiet, 
of course, for your poor little cousin Constance’s 
sake, — at least until after the wedding.” 

“ She shall never know anything about it!” ex- 
claimed Harry. “ For the present, I have this morn- 
ing hit upon a plan which I must insist upon, for 
I am determined to follow it out. Uncle Christo- 


230 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


pher must believe that I am dead. When he comes 
here you will tell him that it was a mistake; that 
the young man fished out of the water was not me.” 

“All right,” cried Tom. “If you wish it.” 

“ I know my uncle better than you do,” pursued 
Harry. “If he thinks that I am dead, his mind 
will be relieved. If he believes that he has failed, 
the rage to kill will master him again. I know how 
it takes possession of him when he destroys the 
smaller animals, and some wounded thing has 
baffled him by escaping. Now, this time, I am the 
game ! ” Harry’s face twitched. “ And I can tell 
you it is no joke, Tom, to be hunted down. It plays 
the deuce with my nerves, and I am going to escape 
to France.” 

“ Just what do you want me to say to your uncle 
this morning?” Tom asked. “For he will cer- 
tainly be here before noon.” 

“ Tell him that you found a strange young man 
and not me when you went to the Accident Ward at 
the hospital last night, and that he has already been 
conveyed to his home and wants nothing said about 
it. Take me to your rooms just as soon as I am 
dressed, and keep me there until I leave London. 
Telephone Mason to come there — and bring me 
some clothes. I shall be quite fit to travel by the 
early train on Tuesday morning, or else at noon. I 
shall see no one but Padre Alvarez before I leave 


THE DEED 


231 

London, and to him alone will I confide the whole 
story.” 

“ All right,” said Tom, “ I’ll do as you say. It 
makes the whole thing more exciting, more like a 
detective story; but just what effect it will have on 
your uncle I really can’t say. Were I the doctor 
in charge of his case, I don’t think I should adopt 
such treatment as you propose. How about Lady 
Bolton?” 

“ Not a soul need know anything. My uncle is 
sure not to say a word to her about it. I think he 
will wait for the body to be found. Then he prob- 
ably expects to explain to the public, and perhaps 
print a copy (which of course he has kept) of the 
letter he wrote to you. Meanwhile, he will keep 
quiet and wait.” 

“ Are you sure of that? ” Tom asked. 

“ Perfectly sure,” answered Harry. 

“ Because I am not ! ” declared Tom decidedly. 
“ You can’t calculate precisely the actions of either 
a criminal or a madman. They are both sly and 
cunning, and you may be sure that Uncle Christo- 
pher’s brain will not sit idle but will concoct some 
scheme, mad or wicked, of its own.” 

“ All I know is, that I want you to get out of this 
room and let me breakfast in peace, and then get 
dressed,” said Harry. “ Tell any story you please 
to my uncle, only get away from here before he ar- 


232 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


rives. I am going to do exactly what I told you. 
When I am safe in France, down at Saint-Lambert, 
you can look after things here in England and keep 
me informed, if you like, as to Uncle Christopher’s 
doings. Lady Bolton is coming in two weeks to 
Saint-Lambert, and a week later we shall all go up 
to Paris for a quiet wedding, — and then,” said 
Harry, his eyes gleaming, “Melanie and I are off to 
Italy, and we shan’t go to England until May. 
Everything will have blown over by that time. My 
uncle will have plenty of leisure to repent, or at 
least to come to his senses, after he learns that I 
am not dead and that the wedding is over; and so 
everything will be all right.” 

“ I hope it may be,” said Tom doubtfully, “ but 
all this will take a lot of explaining.” 

“ I leave all that to you, my dear boy, as a pro- 
fessional man! ” said Harry, with his mouth full of 
toast. “ Of course you will run over to Paris a day 
or two before the wedding, and you can tell Sir 
Christopher all about it afterwards, — how I was 
fished out of the river, and got away somehow, and 
that I have lost my memory as to what happened be- 
fore I tumbled into the water. You have got more 
imagination of the Sherlock Holmes kind than I — * 
I leave all details to you.” 

“ All right,” said Tom. “ I suppose I can say 
you had been drinking too much champagne (as 
your uncle suggested), and that you struck your 


THE DEED 


233 

head against the barge, which helped to knock out 
your memory.” 

Tom left the room. He explained outside to the 
attendants and the authorities that the young gen- 
tleman in the Accident Ward wanted the whole mat- 
ter hushed up, as he had not been in his right mind 
when he tumbled into the river (“had been drink- 
ing, in fact,” Tom said), and that he, Dr. Broad- 
hurst, would return the patient to his family in an 
hour, explaining to them that the youth was only 
looking at the moonlight on the water and had acci- 
dentally lost his balance; so that no one would be 
any the wiser. “ The case must not be entered on 
the books,” he concluded. 


CHAPTER XXV 


A N hour later, when Harry came out of the hos- 
pital leaning on Tom’s arm, dressed in a suit 
of Tom’s clothes and covered with a borrowed over- 
coat (all a rather tight fit), there was a general 
smile on the part of the hospital attendants whom 
they passed through the long corridor. “ He’s been 
on a lark,” was the comment^. Harry found his 
servant, Mason, with a bag, already awaiting him 
at Tom’s rooms. 

“ I had a nasty fall, — knocked down by a cab 
about midnight. My clothes have been sent to the 
cleaner’s, and Dr. Broadhurst has lent me these,” 
Harry explained. “ That is why I did not get home 
last night,” he added. 

“ Yes, sir,” said Mason, looking very much bewil- 
dered. 

At exactly half-past eleven Tom Broadhurst was 
standing on the pavement in front of St. Thomas’s 
Hospital, when Sir Christopher drove up in a cab. 
He paid the driver and almost ran into Tom, whom 
he had not seen, in his haste to enter the hospital. 
Starting back : 

“ Helloa ! ” he cried. “ Where is Harry ? ” 

234 


THE DEED 


235 


“ Not here,” Tom replied. 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked the other, his face 
flooded with crimson. 

“ I mean,” said Tom, eyeing Sir Christopher in- 
tently, “ that it was not Harry after all. It was a 
young man who fell into the water after he (too) 
had probably dined too well, and I sent the youth 
home about an hour ago.” 

“ Not Harry ! ” exclaimed Sir Christopher, 
breathing hard and fast, and looking suspiciously at 
Tom with his wandering and restless blue eyes. 
“ Where did this other man live?” 

“ That I promised not to tell,” answered Tom. 
“ He wanted the whole affair hushed up, as he was 
afraid it might get into the newspapers. I would 
not even have the case recorded at the hospital. We 
often do that, you know,” he added. 

But Sir Christopher was not satisfied. 

“ You said you would telephone before ten o’clock 
last night, if it was not Harry, and no message 
came.” 

“Indeed!” said Tom coolly, looking surprised. 
“ Why, I thought it was just the other way. I am 
sorry if there has been any misunderstanding.” 

“ You don’t seem anxious about Harry,” persisted 
Sir Christopher. 

“ Are you perfectly sure that he really fell or 
jumped into the water?” retorted Tom, “and that 
he is not in France at this moment? ” 


236 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

Sir Christopher scowled. 

“ I wrote to you yesterday morning,” he said, “ a 
detailed account of exactly what happened the night 
before. I told you how I had felt anxious about 
the boy and had followed him to London, — that 
I did not want him to know it for fear of disturb- 
ing him; how my valet had found out at Harry’s 
rooms that he was dining with you, and how I 
walked towards the Westminster Bridge and loi- 
tered along toward Blackfriars in the moonlight, 
until, when I stopped near the obelisk and looked 
back, I saw him coming toward me on the Embank- 
ment. I told you that he stopped at that very in- 
stant and leaned over the parapet ; and that, feeling 
anxious, I was softly approaching him when he sud- 
denly swung himself over the parapet, and I heard 
a plunge in the water. I told you that I looked over 
and saw nothing but the fast-flowing current of the 
river, and no barge or boat in sight.” 

“ Yes,” said Tom, “ I remember you wrote me 
all of this.” 

“ Then what the devil do you mean,” snarled Sir 
Christopher, turning suddenly upon Tom, “ by say- 
ing that he may be in France? ” 

During this conversation both men had been walk- 
ing quite fast toward the river. 

“ We don’t know where he is,” Tom said in an- 
swer to the last question. 

“ We shall know when his body is found,” re- 


THE DEED 


237 


torted Sir Christopher. “ I think that, perhaps, 
after all, I had better give notice of his suicide and 
have a close search kept up.” 

Tom stopped short. 

“ For Heaven’s sake, don’t do that ! It will all 
get into the newspapers! ” he exclaimed. 

“Well, and why not?” asked Sir Christopher 
blandly. “ I suppose he is not the first fool who has 
thrown his life away in a fit of insanity.” 

“ But, of course, Sir Christopher, we must do 
our utmost to keep it quiet for the present. You 
would not, surely, have your daughter or Lady 
Louisa or Lady Bolton have the least suspicion of it 
until, — well, until poor Harry is found ! ” urged 
Tom. 

“ But my dear Doctor Broadhurst,” exclaimed Sir 
Christopher, “ I have already told Constance and 
Lady Louisa all about it, as I wrote you I should 
do, and I have changed my mind since then as to 
publicity. Do you suppose for a moment that I 
wish to keep the matter hushed up as if it were a 
crime? I, who am the last person who saw the 
wretched boy alive ? ” And Sir Christopher cast a 
side glance at Tom while saying these words, which 
was full of a sort of villainous or maniac cunning. 
Tom saw that the “ subliminal ” self was master. 
He tried persuasion. 

“ I think, Sir Christopher,” he said, “ that you are 
quite right from that point of view, but for your 


238 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


daughter’s sake, I should advise you to keep the 
truth from Sydney for the present. And I am very 
sorry that you told her. The poor young lady will 
be so unhappy if her wedding has to be postponed.” 

“ But why should it be delayed for even a day? ” 
rejoined Sir Christopher. “ After all, Harry was 
not a very intimate friend nor a very near relation.” 

“ But consider Lady Bolton’s feelings, — Melanie 
de Vaudreuil’s grandmother,” put in Tom. 

“ Ugh ! ” exclaimed the Baronet. “ I had for- 
gotten about that old she-bear! Well, then, I will 
do as you suggest: keep it quiet for the present. 
I shall swear Conny and Lady Louisa to secrecy, 
if you like, until — well, until the body is found. 
Lady Bolton will probably not find out that Harry 
is missing until somebody writes from Saint Lam- 
bert, — either the Marquis or his daughter — to ask 
news of him.” 

Sir Christopher stopped short, and with an in-» 
sanely cunning smile he asked Tom why it would 
not be “ a good thing ” to telegraph the Marquis in 
Harry’s name that his departure had been delayed. 

“ It would be a fashion of breaking it gently,” he 
explained, waving his hand toward the river which 
they had reached as they strolled along. “ When 
the body is found, — and it must be found — every- 
thing will be set right ! ” 

When they were about to separate a moment later, 
Sir Christopher uttered these parting words : 


THE DEED 


239 

“ Doctor Broadhurst, you will keep on the alert, 
won't you? and so shall I.” 

Sir Christopher shook hands heartily with Tom 
and was about to walk away, when he suddenly 
swung around again. 

“ I say! ” he cried. “ I’ve just hit upon another 
plan! Suppose that I tell the women and anybody 
else that I happen to meet that it zvas Harry who 
was fished out of the water, and that he has gone off 
to France and wants nothing said about this insane 
suicidal fit ? How will that do ? " 

“ Excellently for the present," answered Tom, de- 
lighted with the idea. “ But, Sir Christopher, when 
the body is found , what then ? ” 

“ Why, then," answered Sir Christopher cheerily, 
but with an evil smile, “ we can say that the poor 
boy must have deceived us about intending to go 
to France, and have jumped into the river again! 
I shall go to-morrow and tell the story we have 
agreed upon to Lady Bolton," were his parting 
words, “ and I shall stay here in London afterward 
until something turns up ! " And Sir Christopher 
strode away, his shoulders shaking with concealed 
mirth. 

Tom, looking after him, shook his head and 
whistled under his breath. “ I must manage to get 
an interview with Balters," he said to himself, “ and 
explain matters to him." 


CHAPTER XXVI 


i 

T HE next morning, Monday, Lady Bolton was 
seated in her boudoir-den after an early 
breakfast, reading a letter from Melanie : 

“ Dear Bonnemaman” it began, “ You have 
been complaining that since three years I have for- 
gotten much of my English, and for the reason that 
I am to be a grande dame anglaise, and for Harry's 
sake, I have decided to try to improve myself. It 
is quite hard to do this at Saint-Lambert, for, here, 
I am always speaking French, even to my father, 
as Mile, du Parquet hates English and understands 
it so very little. So I have picked out some books, 
notably ‘ Charles Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare ’ 
(for you know, Granny, Shakespeare is such good 
English), and I read them to myself aloud every 
morning, under the big cedar of Lebanon. It is 
good practice.” 

Lady Bolton continued to read, wrinkling her 
large nose and nodding her head. It was a long 
letter, giving an amusing account of some of “ the 
tribe of Macousine ” (Melanie’s term for French 
female kinsfolk), and also a report of all the pets, 
first of all “Missy,” and then the squirrels and the 
240 


THE DEED 


241 


fishes and the birds. When she came to the latter, 
Lady Bolton threw back her head and shouted 
aloud : 

“ My small yellow canary/’ wrote Melanie, “ has 
been * brought to bed ’ of two sweet little skinny 
canary-birds,” and she added proudly in parenthe- 
sis “(that phrase I think I got from the ‘Comedy 
of Errors’) .” 

Lady Bolton was still laughing heartily when the 
butler announced, “ Sir Christopher Leighton, 
madam. He has something important to say to 
Your Ladyship.” 

“ Show him in here,” said Lady Bolton, putting 
down Melanie’s letter and assuming, like the immor- 
tal Mrs. Todgers, “ a state of genteel grimness suit- 
able to any state of mind and involving any shade 
of opinion.” She noticed, at a glance, that Sir 
Christopher was in very bad shape. She had never 
seen him look like this before, nor indeed, had any- 
body else. His heavy eyes were bloodshot, his beard 
untrimmed, and the skin of his face was mottled 
with dull red spots on the cheeks. He looked fully 
ten years older than when they had parted at Leigh- 
ton Towers, two weeks before. 

“ Are you ill ? ” she could not help exclaiming. 

“ No, thank you,” said Sir Christopher, smiling 
an unpleasant smile. “ There is nothing wrong 
with me. It is about Harry that I came.” 

Sir Christopher then unfolded to the startled 


242 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


Lady Bolton his tale of the events of the last two 
days. When he had finished, she said, aghast, 

“ Do you mean to say that the poor boy is crazy ? ” 

“ Oh, not so bad as that, let us hope. Such fits 
are sometimes quite temporary. Harry has been 
such a recluse during my poor brother’s last illness, 
in fact all the time since he left Oxford, that this 
complete change in his life and fortunes has nat- 
urally quite upset him. You know,” and here Sir 
Christopher’s dull eyes shot a quick malevolent 
gleam, “you and I know, dear Lady Bolton, that 
the superstitions of the Romish Church breed ab- 
normal minds.” 

“ It is much better than no faith at all, though,” 
retorted the old lady hotly. Sir Christopher re- 
sumed, taking no notice of the exclamation, and 
speaking with dogged persistence, and as though by 
rote. 

“ The great Forward Movement is going to de- 
stroy all the old corruptions. The science of Eu- 
genics is coming to the front. There is to be an- 
other International Congress in London next 
year. The only hope that I have for Harry — and 
for all the rest — Anglicans as well as Romanists — 
who have wealth and influence — is that they will 
come to their senses and adopt the ‘ Religion of the 
Future.’ As its learned founder, Charles Eliot, 
President Emeritus of Harvard, has declared : * Its 

influence upon educated men is irresistible.’ ” 


THE DEED 


243 


Lady Bolton was very restive during this speech, 
eyeing Sir Christopher with stern disfavour. “ He 
is the craziest member of the whole family,” shq 
thought ; but she said aloud : 

“ I am dreadfully worried about Harry, Sir Chris- 
topher. I have just got a letter from my grand- 
daughter, telling me that he was expected the next 
day. You are sure that he really did get off yester- 
day?” 

“ He said he should leave by the afternoon train,” 
answered Harry’s uncle, “ but I am sure of nothing. 
He may have put it off, although he seemed quite 
fit enough to travel — the tumble in the water had 
apparently brought him to his senses.” Getting up 
heavily from his chair, Sir Christopher took his 
leave. Lady Bolton looked after him, with half- 
shut eyes and a shaking head. 

“ There is something very wrong somewhere, and 
I believe that old tiger-cat is at the bottom of it,” 
she said to herself. “ He looked as if he were tell- 
ing deliberate lies about Harry. He did not once 
meet my eye and he raved like a lunatic about his 
* Forward Movement ’ ! ” 

Lady Bolton went off in search of Sydney, who 
had just appeared in the breakfast-room. 

“ My dear boy,” she said, “ I won’t tell you what 
has happened, but I am worried about Harry, who, 
I hear, probably left London yesterday for France, 
and I shall start off to-morrow for Saint-Lambert 


244 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


with Timmins and Ophelia. I’ll take the afternoon 
boat, I think, and catch the night train from Paris, 
which will get me to Saint- Lambert on Wednesday 
morning early.” 

44 What is up ? ” asked Sydney. 

44 Oh, don’t ask me, Sydney; I can’t tell you,” re- 
peated Lady Bolton excitedly. 44 If you go to 
Leighton Towers Wednesday, as you said, you will 
doubtless hear all about it. I don’t believe a word 
of it, anyhow ! ” added the incensed old lady. 
44 Now I am going to see about packing,” and she 
left the bewildered Sydney to finish his breakfast. 

ii 

Cosmo Blight looked very frail the following 
morning, as he disclosed his small face to Lady Bol- 
ton when she entered his room, putting down beside 
him a book which he had been reading — as he 
greeted her with a bright smile that showed his 
white teeth; but his face was very pale, and the 
small moustache drooped unwaxed, and had turned 
to a rusty grey. In his eyes, there was a pathetic 
appeal. 

44 How kind of you to come,” he said. 44 1 feared 
you might not find the time, and for many reasons 
I wanted so much to see you before you go to 
France next week.” 

44 1 am going to-day,” answered Lady Bolton. 
44 1 have had to hurry my departure, and I am now 


THE DEED 


245 

on the way to the station. Timmins and Ophelia 
are waiting below in the carriage.” 

“ Might I not see Ophelia ?” asked Cosmo. 
“ You brought her once. She is a magnificent 
creature.” 

“ Not since you have had your tabby-cat and the 
kittens,” said Lady Bolton. “ Besides, you must 
not say she — you know Ophelia is a he!” 

“ I forgot,” said Cosmo, laughing. “ You once 
told me the story of Ophelia and Hamlet, and about 
Hamlet’s family.” 

“ Did I ever tell you what my friend Lady Car- 
rington said when I told her that story ? ” asked 
Lady Bolton. 

“ No,” answered Cosmo, “ but I should like to 
hear it.” 

“ One ought to have known her to appreciate it 
fully. She was a large woman with a deep voice. 
Her mother was a celebrated actress. She struck a 
dramatic attitude when I told her what had hap- 
pened. * And what/ said she, in a sepulchral tone, 
' what did Ophelia say to Hamlet when she saw the 
kittens ? — “ Get thee to a nunnery ” ? ’ She was a 
funny woman, Lady Carrington. God bless her, 
she is dead now.” Then suddenly, “ What book is 
that ? ” exclaimed Lady Bolton. “ Do my old eyes 
deceive me? Can it be ‘Cardinal Newman’ on 
the cover ? What a contrast to ‘ Le Grand 
Pan’!” 


246 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


“ It is ‘ Loss and Gain, the Story of a Convert/ ” 
answered Cosmo, with an air of challenge. 

“ Dear me ! Priests at their usual proselytising 
tricks, eh?” she rejoined, with some contempt. 
“ I’ll warrant the Spanish Padre gave it to you. 
However, it is better than the dreadful ‘ Grand Pan/ 
I must admit that. For little Melanie’s sake, also, 
I will try to hold my tongue — only Romanists are 
so pushing ! ” 

“ You are entirely mistaken, dear lady, for once,” 
asserted Cosmo, smiling. “ The Padre has never 
even mentioned his Church, except to answer ques- 
tions of mine, and I must say he has opened to me 
a sealed book of knowledge and wisdom. To my 
mind, ever since I was old enough to think, religion 
has seemed to be a stupid thing, a remnant of out- 
worn superstition, about which there could be no 
intelligent discussion.” 

“ Dear me!” said Lady Bolton, “ one can see that 
you never were an Anglican, or anybody belonging 
to you ! ” 

“ Far from it. My people were all non-conform- 
ists, of a cast-iron, narrow-minded puritanism which 
frightened me when I was young; a timid, mis- 
shapen little boy, that loved sky and grass, and the 
birds; and could vaguely dream of an all-merciful 
God ; until the ‘ Divine wrath ’ and * predestination ’ 
were made manifest to me in the dreadful sermons 
to which I was forced to listen, scared and crushed, 


THE DEED 


247 


in the corner of a pew in a dismal chapel. How 
free and joyful I felt when I grew to manhood, and 
could deny it all ! ” 

“ Well, my dear Cosmo, one must make allow- 
ances for anybody brought up like that. But what 
started, may I ask, your interest in religious contro- 
versy ? ” 

“ Some argument between myself and the Padre. 
He is very clever, with all his simplicity, and he has 
made me see that really intelligent people can be- 
come absorbed in religion, in its history and litera- 
ture. I had really never thought of it before, ex- 
cept as something absolutely opposed to intelligence 
and reason.” 

Cosmo pointed to the book lying beside him, and 
went on: “Yesterday, I had said all this to the 
Padre, and he answered : ‘ But religion is reason - 

able first of all. The Church is not altogether aloft 
in the sky. She stands upon the earth and has solid 
ground under her feet.’ I answered that I could 
not admit any such assertion; that free and inde- 
pendent thought and private judgment must always, 
I believed, lead men to denial. I also told him that, 
on the few occasions when I had entered a Catholic 
Church in Italy or France for the sake of art, and 
had happened upon some ceremony or other, I was 
always struck by the reverence of the people and 
the apparent irreverence of the priest, who seemed 
to gabble as fast as he could something incompre- 


248 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


hensible to everybody present, and to be in an in- 
decent haste to have it all over. The music, I ac- 
knowledged, was very impressive and touching some- 
times; but what went on at the altar seemed most 
undignified. He listened patiently and then said, 
4 1 see exactly what you mean, but it is because you 
don’t understand. You are blind!’ This morn- 
ing he came to me with this book, saying, * I cannot 
express to you in English what I should like to say; 
neither could you understand well if I spoke in Span- 
ish; so I have found in this book answers to both 
of your objections of yesterday, and I have marked 
them both in pencil, pages 157 and 252. I leave 
the book with you, but I doubt if any more of it 
would interest you. It is, like all of Cardinal New- 
man’s writings, of especial interest only to scholars 
who have a clear understanding and wide knowl- 
edge of religious controversy and are accustomed to 
dispute. He is too far above me in mind,’ said the 
meek little Padre, ‘ for me to be able always to fol- 
low him; and so I do not often read any writing 
of his. I live with simple souls among the poor, 
and my work leaves me little time, now, for read- 
ing. But this book, as a story of conversion, I 
have found deeply interesting.’ At the risk of bor- 
ing you, Lady Bolton, I have told you all that the 
Padre said, because I won't have him called a 
4 proselytising priest,’ even by you, much less by my 
good niece Sarah, who has been bothering me about 


THE DEED 


249 


him,” and Cosmo’s bright steel-blue eyes kindled. 

He handed the book to Lady Bolton. “ Read 
these pages,” he said, “ now, and tell me what you 
think ; for there is in them something that takes hold 
of me, that sets my imagination going. It is like 
the opening of a cage-door to a bird,” he paused, 
and then added, “ or like light to the blind.” 

Cosmo watched Lady Bolton as she read. She 
began almost with a sniff, and gradually her face 
relaxed into serious attention. She read as fol- 
lows : 

“ Now, it need not be denied that those who are 
external to the Church must begin with private judg- 
ment ; they use it in order ultimately to supersede it ; 
as a man out-of-doors uses a lamp in a dark night, 
and puts it out when he gets home. What would 
be thought of his bringing it into the drawing-room? 
What would the goodly company assembled there 
before a genial hearth and under glittering chan- 
deliers, the bright ladies and the well-dressed gen- 
tlemen, say to him, if he came in with a great-coat 
on his back, a hat on his head, an umbrella under 
his arm, and a lantern in his hand? 

“ When the king came to see the guests, he saw 
a man who had not on a wedding-garment ; he saw 
a man determined to live in the Church as he had 
lived out of it, who would not use his privileges, 
who would not exchange reason for faith, who 
would not accommodate his thoughts and doings to 


250 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


the glorious scene which surrounded him, who was 
groping for the hidden treasure and digging for the 
pearl of price in the high, lustrous, all-je welled Tem- 
ple of the Lord of Hosts; who shut his eyes and 
speculated when he might open them and see.” 

When Lady Dolton had finished, she exclaimed, 
“ But that is all true; one does not have to be a 
Romanist to see the truth of that. It is exactly 
the way I feel about my faith and my Church.” 

“ That page,” said Cosmo, “ was the Padre’s an- 
swer to my objection that faith is absolutely con- 
trary to reason. On page 252 he has found an an- 
swer to what I said about the irreverent gabbling of 
the priest at mass. Oh, read that, too, Lady Bol- 
ton, please. It is not long.” 

Lady Bolton read the page or two, marked in pen- 
cil, and grew very serious when she had finished 
reading and closed the book. 

“ I had never thought of that before,” she said. 
“ It is a revelation to me as well as to you, Cosmo.” 
What she read was this : 

“ I could attend masses forever and not be tired. 
It is not a mere form of words, it is a great action, 
the greatest action that can be on the earth. It is 
not the invocation merely, but, if I dare use the 
word, the evocation of the Eternal. He becomes 
present on the altar in flesh and blood before whom 
angels bow and devils tremble. This is that awful 
event which is the end, and is the interpretation of 


THE DEED 


251 


every part of the solemnity. Words are necessary, 
but as means, not as ends. They are not mere ad- 
dresses to the Throne of Grace, they are instruments 
of what is far higher, of consecration, of sacrifice. 
They hurry on, as if impatient to fulfill their mis- 
sion. Quickly they go, for they are awful words of 
sacrifice, they are a work too great to delay upon; 
as when it was said in the beginning : ‘ What thou 

doest, do quickly.' Quickly they pass ; for the Lord 
Jesus goes with them, as He passed along the lake 
in the days of His flesh, quickly calling first one and 
then another. Quickly they pass; because as the 
lightning which shineth from one part of the heaven 
unto the other, so is the coming of the Son of Man. 
Quickly they pass; for they are as the words of 
Moses, when the Lord came down in the cloud, 
calling on the name of the Lord as he passed 
by 4 The Lord, the Lord God, merciful and gra- 
cious, long-suffering and abundant in goodness and 
truth.' And as Moses on the mountain, so we too, 
4 make haste and bow our heads to the earth, and 
adore.' So we, all around, each in his place, look 
out for the great Advent, ‘ waiting for the moving 
of the water.' 

“ There are little children there, and old men, and 
simple labourers, and students in seminaries, priests 
preparing for Mass, priests making their thanks- 
giving; there are innocent maidens, and there are 
penitents; but out of these many minds rises one 


252 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


eucharistic hymn, and the great Action is the meas- 
ure and the scope of it.” 

Lady Bolton kept silence for a moment after put- 
ting down the book. “ This is more than an ex- 
planation,” she said at last. “ It speaks to my heart 
as it does to yours, Cosmo. Perhaps both you and 
I have been warped by prejudice and ignorance; 
and, for one, I am glad of anything which can make 
me think better of the faith which was my only 
child’s and is her only child’s. I shall remember al- 
ways every word you have said to-day, and every 
word that I have read, and I take back anything dis- 
agreeable I may have said about the Spanish Padre. 
He is a good man and a good friend to you, Cosmo, 
and I leave you in his hands gladly, until I come 
back.” 

“ He is a scholar and a gentleman,” said Cosmo, 
smiling; “but, best of all, he is a real saint. His 
faith is his life. He lives with the poor, at home in 
Madrid, and everywhere he goes, and he under- 
stands poverty and pain.” 

Tears came to the little artist’s eyes as he spoke, a 
softness unknown to him in his days of stoic philos- 
ophy. 

“ Why, my dear Cosmo,” cried Lady Bolton, 
" we shall have you preaching sermons next.” 

The little man shook his head, smiling. “ I am 
only trying to understand,” he said gently. 


THE DEED 


2 53 

“ Sometimes it seems to me that it is I who grope, 
and the Padre Alvarez sees l” 

When Lady Bolton had said good-bye to Cosmo, 
she stood a moment outside his door, talking with 
the yellow-eyed Sarah Burton. 

“ How does your uncle seem to you ? ” she asked. 

“ He gets weaker/’ answered Sarah, shaking her 
head. “ And he no longer talks about what he is 
going to do in ten years, as he used to do, and I 
don’t know if you’ve noticed it, Lady Bolton, but 
Uncle has stopped dyeing his moustache! That 
shows he’s losing courage ; for he must have done it 
all those years in that room, alone. Dear me ! To 
think of it: the vanity of life, Lady Bolton,” and 
Sarah shook her head. She loved her uncle, but she 
could not quite “ approve ” of him. “ I don’t say he 
is not cheerful,” she pursued, “ but I can’t help being 
sorry that that Romish priest comes so often. He is 
getting a hold upon Uncle. He brings him books, 
too. Of course I don’t mean to blame Miss Melanie, 
your grand-daughter, for bringing the Spanish man 
here. She meant well, I have no doubt; only I am 
sorry that my uncle ever made his acquaintance.” 

The worthy Sarah’s Presbyterian missionary 
blood was evidently stirred and defiant. 

“You don’t look well yourself, my dear,” said 
Lady Bolton, to change the subject. 

“ That I’m not ! ” asseverated Sarah. “ I have 


254 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


queer turns in my head sometimes. I lose conscious- 
ness for a while, and then come back to myself and 
wonder where I am and where Eve been. There 
was an uncle on my father’s side who had fits, and 
it makes me nervous.” 

“ You must consult my doctor at once/’ said Lady 
Bolton. “ I will write a note to him on my card.” 
And Lady Bolton wrote on a visiting-card a word 
of introduction. 

“ There, don’t lose it. His address is on one side, 
and a note to him on the other. Good-bye, and God 
bless you. I am off to the train.” 

“ But you’ll have no lunch,” remonstrated Sarah. 

“ Lunch ! ” echoed Lady Bolton, looking fiercely 
at her. “ Lunch, two hours before taking that 
Channel boat? I should say not. I breakfasted at 
nine, and at Calais, the other side of the Channel, I 
shall eat at four o’clock. It will be worth while then. 
Ugh ! ” And Lady Bolton descended to her car- 
riage, with a shudder of anticipation. 

Three hours later, Lady Bolton, Timmins, 
Ophelia (in his basket) and a footman, beside a 
porter bearing much hand-luggage, descended upon 
the Dover boat bound for Calais. The passengers 
were few, going in that direction, and the sea was 
what Lady Bolton called “ qualmish.” She had de- 
scended the staircase and was proceeding at a dig- 
nified pace toward Cabin 12 along the corridor, 


THE DEED 


255 


closely followed by her two attendants and impedi- 
menta, when she encountered a tall, dark figure in a 
long ulster, coming out of No. 10. 

“ Granny ! ” it exclaimed, taken aback. 

Lady Bolton dropped into a chair just outside of 
the cabin door. (As in the great climaxes of Ga- 
boriau’s novels, " elle saffaissa dans un fauteuil”) 

“ Good God — Harry ! ” was all she could say. 

“ IBs all right, dear Granny. Here I am!’’ said 
Harry, soothingly. Lady Bolton, who had shut her 
eyes tight, opened them, but observing a white ban- 
dage bound across Harry’s forehead just below his 
hat, she exclaimed, “Good gracious!” and shut 
them tight again. It flashed through her mind that 
she might be in the hands of a madman, but her 
courage did not desert her. She would speak him 
fair. 

“ I have been wondering why you did not come to 
see me. I did not know you were going to France 
until next week,” she said, smiling sweetly, but still 
with closed eyes. 

“ Nor I that you were,” rejoined Harry. “ I de- 
cided rather suddenly, and sent Mason off with the 
luggage by the early boat this morning, as I prefer 
to travel without a servant.” 

Lady Bolton stole a glance at Harry from half- 
opened eyes. He certainly seemed calm and col- 
lected, and he was even smiling; after all, the dread- 


256 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


ful things that Sir Christopher had been telling her 
might be false ! Most probably they were a pack of 
lies ! But then — the bandaged head ? 

Before she could decide what next to say, the boat, 
which meantime had set out upon its wallowing way, 
passed the breakwater and suddenly began to 
wrestle with some white-crested and aggressive 
waves lying in wait for it outside. All thought of 
anything else in heaven or on earth deserted Lady 
Bolton. 

“ I must lie down ! ” she cried hoarsely, and ten- 
derly clutching Harry’s arm, she allowed him to con- 
duct her to the sofa of Cabin No. 12. We shall 
draw a veil over the next hour, only admitting that 
sounds, such as Melanie had once described as “ like 
the sea-lions in the Zoo at feeding-time,” pierced 
through the closed door of the Cabin No. 12 during 
that stormy crossing. 

At Calais Lady Bolton landed, very limp and 
clinging still more closely to Harry Leighton’s arm. 

“ There is no doubt about it,” she admitted. 
“ The starch all goes out of me when I’m not on dry 
land!” 

All the way to Paris she cast an occasional inquir- 
ing glance at Harry, feeling all the time more com- 
pletely reassured. 

“ He has evidently been hurt somehow,” she said 
to herself, “ but he is as straight as a die. After all, 
everything I heard came from that Sir Christopher 


THE DEED 


257 

tiger-cat. I shouldn’t wonder if he himself has been 
up to some evil trick or other.” 

Aloud she said to Harry, “ What is the matter 
with your head, my dear boy ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing much,” answered Harry. “ It was 
rather a nasty cut, but it is healing all right — and 
Tom Broadhurst says it will hardly leave a scar.” 

“ How did it happen? ” 

Harry looked her steadily in the eye. “ I was not 
looking where I went, and a cab knocked me down,” 
he said briefly. 

“Humph!” said Lady Bolton. “You country 
mice had better look out when you come up to town.” 

She was not at all satisfied with this explanation, 
but she said no more about the matter, nor did she 
mention Sir Christopher’s visit, or allude to the story 
he had told her. She was only too glad to have her 
mind relieved about Harry’s sanity. “ He is no 
more mad than I am!” was her mental comment, 
“ but I’m inclined to believe that Sir Christopher 
himself is as mad as a hatter.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 



HAUNTED man was Sir Christopher after 


his visit to Lady Bolton. He watched and 
waited all day long in feverish impatience, sitting 
near the telephone most of the time, in his library 
at Leighton House, and going out only for a hasty 
luncheon, and again for dinner, at his Club, where he 
went early, in order to avoid seeing anybody, and 
came home to bed immediately after. 

On Tuesday, after a brief mid-day meal, Sir 
Christopher decided to take a long walk and shake 
off the horrid spectre of apprehension which racked 
his nerves to pieces, always harping on one string — 
the finding of Harry Leighton’s body. The sharp, 
crisp air, high wind, and bright sunshine soon dis- 
pelled and blew away Sir Christopher’s dark thoughts 
and aroused his healthy animal instincts; the kind 
of daring and conquering spirit which belongs to a 
mighty hunter. 

His mind now leaped forward beyond the neces- 
sary and unpleasant episode of finding Harry and 
burying him, and confronted a golden future, where 
his “ Reason ” told him that everything would turn 
out to be for the best in the best of all worlds. That 


THE DEED 


259 


French girl would now certainly never come to 
England, to propagate a Papist generation. The 
Leighton name would at least die an honourable 
death at the demise of Sir Christopher himself. 
Gradually, self-satisfaction took possession of his 
mind, and he was well content with his own interpre- 
tation of the “ Religion of the Future.” He caught 
glimpses of an earthly paradise with Festivals of the 
Sun, of the Flowers, of the Harvest, to supersede the 
corruption of the old ghastly superstitions, in which 
death, and the grave, and future punishment were so 
horridly prominent. In France these beautiful 
Festivals of Nature were already proposed, and the 
crowning gaiety of all was to be the Festival of the 
“ Joie de vivre ” — a splendid world filled with joy- 
ous laughter, and teeming discreetly with only the 
choicest animals, the lower to be skilfully done to 
death by the higher. Sir Christopher smiled, and 
swelled out his ample chest with a deep breath of sat- 
isfaction. 

Then suddenly, without warning, his nerves 
jumped up clamorous inside of him again, calling 
for attention; and with a shiver and a scowl Sir 
Christopher found himself once more face to face 
with a ghastly reality which looked him in the eyes 
and whispered : “ First of all, the body must be 

found.” 

Sir Christopher strode into the club at five o’clock, 
in a state of unconcealed nervous irritability. He 


2<5o SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


sat down in the smoking-room, and ordered tea, 
glancing about him suspiciously and evidently in so 
bad a humour that none of his friends present did 
more than nod to him. As soon as the waiter ap- 
peared with the evening papers he snatched up one 
of them in a hand that shook nervously. 

Suddenly Sir Christopher stiffened himself in the 
leather armchair as he read the folowing para- 
graph, with a heading in capital letters, “ Unknown 
Body Found. Suspected Suicide.” It began as 
follows : 

“ Yesterday morning early, the body of a man 
was washed ashore at Greenwich.” Sir Christopher 
hastily ran his eyes over the rest of the paragraph and 
read that “ the dead man had nothing in his pockets 
and no marks on his clothes by which to identify 
him,” etc. Then he came to the concluding sen- 
tence which read, “ The deceased appeared to be 
about sixty years of age.” 

“ Damn ! ” roared Sir Christopher, suddenly, 
throwing down the paper. 

“What on earth is the matter?” asked an old 
friend nearby, looking up in mild astonishment from 
the Pall Mali. 

“Nothing!” snarled Sir Christopher, swinging 
out of the room in a rage. 

The mild old gentleman observed to a friend that : 
“ Leighton has been very queer these last two days, 
not like himself at all.” 


THE DEED 


261 


Meanwhile Sir Christopher dashed out of the 
Club and, jumping into a taxi-cab, drove fast through 
the dull red gloaming of what promised to be a 
stormy night, straight to Harry Leighton’s rooms. 
Balters had been sent there on the two previous days 
to inquire, and had brought back each time the same 
answer as to Harry, to the effect that Mr. Leighton 
had gone out the Friday before, late in the afternoon, 
and had not yet returned ; that his valet, Mason, had 
left the house (carrying one valise) on Sunday 
morning, and had come back in the afternoon, spend- 
ing Sunday night, and going away again early Mon- 
day morning. 

Sir Christopher dismissed his cab, and glancing 
up at the windows of Harry’s floor, noticed that the 
shutters were closed inside. What was his con- 
sternation when he learned that Mason had come 
back alone the night before (refusing to give any 
news of his master), had shut up and locked every- 
thing in the rooms, and had departed before seven 
o’clock on that very morning, carrying with him all 
the luggage in a four-wheeler. 

Sir Christopher stood aghast. “ Did you notice 
particularly a brown leather valise?” he asked. 

Oh, yes, he was told, Mason had himself carried 
down the brown valise, had put it carefully inside 
before he got in himself. 

Sir Christopher, with an oath, jumped into a 
passing hansom and drove straight to Scotland 


262 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


Yard. He said that he had come to report the rob- 
bery of a diamond necklace of immense value, 
twenty thousand pounds at least. He described 
Mason accurately, and the time of his leaving the 
house, but gave no other details, only saying that the 
necklace belonged to a near relation who was absent 
on the Continent, and in consequence unable to at- 
tend to the matter himself. A man of Sir Christo- 
pher’s immense wealth was widely known, and when 
he gave his card and address, the police authorities 
became eagerly interested and promised to report 
that night at Leighton House. 

Sir Christopher was much upset by the evident 
theft of the necklace. “ That fellow Mason must 
have found out about Harry from Dr. Broadhurst,” 
he declared to himself. When the body should be 
found , of course the beautiful “riviere” of dia- 
monds would become his own property, as next-of- 
kin, and Sir Christopher meant to bestow it upon his 
darling child Constance on her wedding-day. He 
had, in fact, arranged many things in his mind with 
regard to Harry’s possessions, to his own entire 
satisfaction. 

Sir Christopher came back early, after dining at 
his club, to Leighton House, and at half-past nine he 
received the following police report. The valet, 
Mason, had bought a ticket at Charing Cross, 
through to Paris via Dover, and had left by the nine 
o’clock train, registering all the luggage except one 


THE DEED 


263 


brown valise, which he was seen to carry in his 
hand. He noticeably put it down just in front of 
him and rested one foot upon it while he paid for his 
ticket. 

Sir Christopher said that he was much obliged for 
the prompt information, but that he wished to attend 
to the whole matter himself in Paris, where he ex- 
pected to find his nephew, the owner. He announced 
that he would leave early in the morning, and any 
further news of Mason’s whereabouts or movements 
in Paris should be given to him there on the follow- 
ing afternoon at the Hotel Ritz. 

“ I don’t want the fellow arrested at once,” he 
asserted; “only keep an eye on him and report to 
me through your Paris agent.” 

Sir Christopher had made up his mind that nothing 
could be more beneficial to his own nerves than to 
stalk and hunt down the thief, Mason, himself. It 
would lighten the suspense of waiting. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


S IR CHRISTOPHER cast a haggard eye at 
Balters. 

“Why the devil are you hanging around me?” 
he asked. “ You have kept up a kind of spying 
upon me ever since we left London and even before! 
It really gets on my nerves. Don’t suppose I have 
not noticed it. What on earth is the meaning of 
it?” 

Sir Christopher had just finished his tea at the 
Hotel Ritz, in Paris, where he had arrived an hour 
before. Balters certainly had come into the salon 
oftener than was absolutely necessary. He had 
drawn the curtains the first time, as the late after- 
noon was dull and electric light cheerful; but his 
subsequent proceedings seemed only an aimless pot- 
tering, — the smoothing of a table-cover in a corner, 
or straightening a vase on the mantelshelf, — and 
always the poor man cast a furtive glance at his 
master, like a faithful dog scenting an evil wind. 

“ I beg your pardon, Sir Christopher,” was all that 
Balters could say in answer, and went into the ad- 
joining bedroom, taking care, however, to leave the 
door ajar. 


264 


THE DEED 265 

“ Balters ! ” shouted Sir Christopher in a sudden 
nervous frenzy. 

Balters appeared. 

“ You’ve left the door open on purpose ! By 
Jove, I am not going to stand this any longer. Go 
out and take a walk, will you ? Anywhere ; I don’t 
care what you do ; only see that you do not come back 
before eight o’clock. You understand? ” 

“ Yes, Sir Christopher,” faltered the faithful Bal- 
ters, and a moment later he emerged from the hotel, 
with an overcoat buttoned close, for the night was 
chilly, and, shivering with nervous apprehension as 
much as with the cold, he mounted guard; walking 
up and down the Place Vendome, and keeping al- 
ways his eyes fixed upon the porte-cochere of the 
Ritz. 

Meanwhile Sir Christopher rang to have the tea 
taken away, and walked moodily up and down the 
room as soon as the servant had disappeared. He 
wondered if he should have any message from the 
police that night; if so, it must come soon. But 
very likely there would be no news of Mason before 
to-morrow or next day. A thief taking refuge in 
Paris is like a needle in a haystack. Mason, Sir 
Christopher felt convinced, would want to cover up 
his tracks, and he might even disguise himself. It 
seemed strange that he did not think of that before 
leaving London, but he probably had not had time. 
He could not have changed his appearance, at any 


266 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


rate, before leaving Harry’s rooms, without being 
noticed when he went out of the house. One reads, 
however, of criminals producing false beards and 
goggles and making a lightning change in the “ toi- 
lette ” of a railway train. 

Thoughts such as these may have been assailing 
Sir Christopher’s mind, when there came a knock 
upon the salon door. A blue-capped messenger 
waited for the receipt to be signed before handing to 
Sir Christopher an official envelope. When the man 
was gone Sir Christopher opened the message, and 
at once, with an oath, crumpled the paper in his 
clenched hands and flung it upon the floor by the fire- 
place. It read as follows : “ The individual for 

whom information has been requested, arrived at 
the Gare du Nord, at three o’clock yesterday, 
crossed Paris in a voiture a galerie to the Gare de 
Lyon, and left upon the five o’clock train, after buy- 
ing a second-class ticket to Saint-Lambert. He car- 
ried in his hand a brown valise, and registered the 
rest of his luggage.” 

Sir Christopher’s fury knew no bounds. It 
seemed as though all the still latent and pent-up 
frenzy of the past four weeks was let loose like a 
devil unchained. He would like to have smashed 
everything in the room that was breakable as some 
immediate outlet for the wild desire to kill. He 
“saw red” ! After muttering: “It is a bare- 
faced robbery. It must be a damned conspiracy 


THE DEED 


267 


with those French people. I’ll find out the truth! ” 
Sir Christopher rushed into the bed-room, seized the 
night-gear and toilet things carefully laid out by 
Balters, crammed them hastily into his dressing-bag, 
and, throwing an overcoat across his arm, strode 
downstairs. 

The patient Balters, cold and hungry, watching 
outside, was on the point of slinking in again a half- 
hour before eight o’clock, when, to his consterna- 
tion, he saw a taxicab whirl out of the Ritz porte- 
cochere, and in a gleam of the electric lamps which 
were already lit, he beheld Sir Christopher dashing 
off into the unknown darkness. The taxicab 
whisked round the corner and disappeared, going 
toward the rue de Rivoli. Balters tried to look un- 
concerned as he made inquiries at the desk inside. 
The clerk only remarked in answer : 

“ Sir Christopher Leighton asked me to tell you 
that he is called away unexpectedly for the night, 
and that you are to look after everything and await 
his return.” 

“ Did he say where he was going? ” asked Balters. 

“ He did not!” answered the clerk shortly, turn- 
ing to speak to somebody else. 

A moment later, it was Balters upstairs in the 
salon who was behaving like one demented. His 
eye, as he entered the doorway, had alighted at once 
upon the crumpled paper lying on the floor by the 
fireplace. 


268 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


“ My God! ” he cried, after reading it. “If Sir 
Christopher seeks Mr. Harry at Saint-Lambert, 
there will be murder done, sure , this time ! ” 

When he was able to get his wits together, Balters 
glanced at the clock. A quarter to eight, — he could 
not possibly make the 8 o’clock train at the Gare de 
Lyon, which he knew Sir Christopher would have 
had just time to catch, for he felt convinced that his 
master had gone to Saint-Lambert. Balters decided 
at once to send two wires, one to Harry Leighton at 
Saint-Lambert and one to Tom Broadhurst in Lon- 
don. The first was as follows : “ Sir Christopher 

has left for Saint-Lambert, probably by the eight 
o’clock train.” The second telegram contained the 
same words, followed by, “What am I to do?” 
Having despatched these messages, Balters locked 
the door of Sir Christopher’s apartment, and, taking 
the key with him, went to his own room, to bed but 
not to sleep. 

Balters was wrong in supposing that Sir Chris- 
topher suspected Harry’s presence at Saint-Lambert. 
It never dawned upon his mind that Harry was not 
drowned. For Sir Christopher Harry was dead — 
and almost buried ; for the body must soon be found. 
Into his disordered mind there had flashed, however, 
a wild idea that the Marquis and Melanie, having 
found out the truth about Harry (perhaps through 
Tom Broadhurst), were conspiring with him and 
with Mason to get possession of the diamond neck- 


THE DEED 


269 


lace, which was now legally Sir Christopher’s own 
property, with everything else that Harry Leighton 
had inherited from his father. No ante-nuptial set- 
tlement had been drawn up; nothing which could 
constitute the faintest shadow of a claim for the 
French girl. 

Sir Christopher, however, was beginning to feel 
convinced that foreigners and papists would stop 
short at nothing to gain their ends. “ All liars and 
intriguers,” he raved to himself, as the train whirled 
along through the dark night. “ The Marquis and 
his daughter are no better than the rest ; but they will 
have me to deal with to-morrow ! ” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


T HE Marquis always gave orders at the “ postes 
et telegraphes ” in the town of Saint-Lambert 
that no telegrams arriving after nine o’clock at night 
for him should ever be delivered at the Chateau, two 
miles away, before the next morning. “ If it is 
good news, it will keep, and if bad, it only would 
deprive one of a needed night’s sleep.” For there 
is no getting away from Saint-Lambert before the 
afternoon: the morning train goes only as far as 
Clermont-Ferrand, and even that is an omnibus. 
The only express to Paris goes through from 
Bezier at three in the afternoon. 

When Balters’ despatch arrived quite late in 
the night, the Post-master at Saint-Lambert merely 
put it aside, saying: “That can be sent to- 
morrow.” It would go up with the mail which ar- 
rived always from Paris on the ten o’clock train. 
The Marquis was in the habit of breakfasting very 
late and was glad not to be disturbed by letters or 
telegrams before eleven o’clock, at about which time 
the postman, on a bicycle, came to the Chateau, so 
that he was well satisfied with the primitive ways 
of Saint-Lambert. His coffee was always served 
270 


THE DEED 


271 


at half-past nine in his dressing-room, but only at 
eleven o'clock, when the “courier” was expected, 
did he usually go to the library downstairs; to sort 
and distribute the mail, and to work afterward with 
his secretary for an hour before the mid-day dejeu- 
ner d la fourchette . 

These habits and customs of Saint-Lambert al- 
ways irritated Lady Bolton, who liked invariably to 
have her letters and newspapers served with her 
early breakfast at eight o'clock. 

“ Think of living in a place where nothing hap- 
pens or can happen before eleven o'clock," she used 
to complain. “ Half the day is gone before one 
really gets on end ! " 

Breakfast at the Chateau was a moving series of 
little feasts. Trays bearing various breakfasts were 
carried upstairs at intervals between eight o’clock 
and ten, to the different members of the family or 
their guests. 

Melanie herself was an early bird always, wanting 
to go into the garden and along the upper terraces, 
interested in every living thing, animal or vegetable. 
Mademoiselle du Parquet, of course, got up very 
early; usually going to Mass when the cook trotted 
off in a two-wheeled cart to market. 

The town of Saint-Lambert is about fifteen 
minutes away; one of those old French towns whose 
importance and population have decreased since two 
hundred years ago, so untouched is it by any modern 


272 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

progress or innovation; consisting of a few winding 
streets with narrow and old grey houses, spread 
along a brawling stream, and dominated by one 
splendid mediaeval gate, flanked by two high round 
towers ; sole relic of an important past. 

Melanie, on this special morning, was up and out 
before nine o’clock, and Harry, of course, had fol- 
lowed, joining her on the third terrace, where melons 
and a number of southern fruits and vegetables grew 
ripe in the golden sun. This terrace was, in fact, 
the kitchen-garden of Saint-Lambert, and Melanie 
loved the humble green edible things as much as she 
did the flowers on the terraces below. 

“ It is such fun,” she said, “ to see the peas change 
from winged white blossoms into tiny little pods, 
and to watch them swell and grow, until one can 
count the little round peas inside.” 

This was a reminiscence; for “pea-time” was 
long past now, and only some big beans, called 
“ Soissons,” still lingered yellow upon their wither- 
ing stalks. 

“ Autumn is beautiful here, also,” insisted 
Melanie. “ It has such ‘ beaux restes ’ of summer 
mixed with its own splendid reds and yellows, like 
a congealed sunset. It is like the end of a life with 
a splendid past ! ” 

Immediately after this poetic declaration (for 
Melanie had taken to writing verses), she pounced 
upon a belated caterpillar, and rolling him carefully 


THE DEED 


273 


in a broad leaf, she carried him to a shed, where, 
among various tools and wheelbarrows, there stood 
an enormous flower-pot covered with a lid made of 
gauze sewed over a barrel-hoop. 

“ This is my caterpillar-house,” she explained, 
“ for. the kind that bury themselves and stay all win- 
ter in the earth. These come out beautiful moths in 
the early summer; there is one in there now,” and 
Melanie pointed her finger at the small dry ceme- 
tery. “ He was a huge creature ; green and gold ; 
and had spikes on him; he was nearly a foot long. 
Next year he will be a splendid moth. I had one 
once before, four years ago.” 

Harry was next called upon to inspect two mar- 
mots that lived in an iron cage on the fourth terrace, 
which was the last step upon the mountain-side. 
Above it, the arid slope rose steep, sown with scrubby 
evergreens which were the delight of the Marquis. 
He had planted them himself when he returned to 
the old place twenty years before, hoping to repro- 
duce one of the vanished forests of the old Gevau- 
dan. But the ungrateful soil and the rude winter 
winds had stunted their growth and twisted them 
all one way ; the branches stretching forth toward the 
mountain-side as though to seek refuge from the 
ruthless blasts of winter. The marmots blinked 
small, green eyes, and showed long yellow rodent 
teeth set in purple gums. Harry refused to admire 
them. 


274 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


“ They look stupid,” he said, “ and they are very 
ugly.’’ 

“ Oh, but they are very clever ! ” remonstrated 
Melanie. “ Have you not read stories of little Savo- 
yards and their marmots who dance and perform 
tricks ? ” 

After the marmots, a step lower and nearer to the 
Chateau, came a squirrel-house under a spreading 
beech-tree that grew on the edge of a cleft in the 
hill-side, through which came the gush of spring 
water that flowed down from a high place in the 
mountains and filled a great stone trough built 
against the wall below. From this trough all the 
water was drawn for every purpose about the gar- 
den and stable and laundry, while the drinking water 
was taken directly from the little cataract, clear as 
crystal, that spouted from the top of the wall and 
splashed into the trough. This “ Fontaine Boyer,” 
as it was called, was a famous spring, never known 
to fail, and also possessing remarkable properties, 
according to the peasant population. The gardener’s 
wife at Saint-Lambert was supposed to owe a thriv- 
ing family of twelve (with two pairs of twins) to 
its mysterious prolific properties ; and like a miracu- 
lous spring at Plombieres, it is frequented by newly- 
married wives, who walk up from the town or down 
from the high mountain villages, carrying a cup to 
catch the clear sparkling water and drink it, piously, 
with a little prayer to the Mother of God, that they 


THE DEED 


275 


may be blessed with children. For there is no ten- 
dency to race suicide nor desire for it in this whole- 
some part of France, where the churches are crowded 
on Sunday with men as well as women, and where 
the sturdy offspring of the peasants and shepherds 
provides faithful priests and missionaries that spread 
the message of Pentecost throughout the world. 

I could tell many stories of the saintly lives of 
these priests, and of the courage and faith of a 
people living in bitter poverty, clothed almost in 
rags, having hardly enough food to prevent starva- 
tion, but enduring bravely and cheerfully to the end, 
knowing that the Lord awaits them there with a 
“ Crown of Life.” And from these people, and 
from all the people of France — the good, the bad, 
and (most hopeless of all) the indifferent, the 
French Government has taken away every religious 
order that taught the little children to love God and 
to pray to Him. At Saint-Lambert only a few 
Dominican nuns and “ Soeurs de la Misericorde ” 
are still tolerated, because they care for the sick and 
infirm, and thus save money to the government. 


CHAPTER XXX 


W HEN Harry came in from the garden the 
clock was just striking eleven. The Mar- 
quis called him into the library, and handed him some 
letters and a telegram. Harry glanced at the latter, 
and his face turned pale. The half-healed cut upon 
his brow grew red and throbbed painfully. 

“ Any bad news ? ” asked the Marquis. 

Harry paused a moment, hesitating, and then, as 
though coming to a swift decision, he shut the door 
and approached the large writing-table where the 
elder man was sitting. 

“ It is rather a long story,” he said. “ I had 
hoped that I might keep the whole matter a secret, 
known only to three people, — myself, Tom Broad- 
hurst, and my Uncle Christopher’s old servant. We 
all three had imagined that the worst was over.” 

“ Is it something about your uncle ? ” asked the 
Marquis. “ I thought he behaved very strangely (in 
fact, that he was decidedly toque), when we were in 
England. Has it developed into a mania? ” 

“ I will tell you the whole story,” answered 
Harry ; and in as few words as possible he gave an 
account of all the recent events. 

276 


THE DEED 277 

As the horror grew, until the climax was reached, 
the Marquis listened breathless. Then : 

“ Why did not you shut him up? ” he asked. 

Harry explained the reasons for avoiding pub- 
licity and his wish to spare Constance. 

“ But meantime a madman is turned loose ! ” cried 
the Marquis excitedly, jumping up from his chair 
and pacing up and down the room. 

“ That is the worst of it ! ” exclaimed Harry. “ I 
had a despatch yesterday from London, saying that 
Sir Christopher was in Paris, looking for Mason, 
who, he believed, had absconded with my luggage 
and the valise containing the diamond neck- 
lace.” 

“ But he may come here ! ” cried the Marquis, 
stopping suddenly in his walk. 

“ I fear that he is here already!” said Harry, 
handing him the telegram. 

For a moment neither of them spoke. The big 
clock (an old English clock) whirred, and the chimes 
sounded clear, — a quarter past eleven. The Mar- 
quis started. 

“ We have no time to lose,” he said. “ We must 
go out and look for him.” 

In the hall he picked up his Panama hat and took 
the heaviest cane he possessed, saying : 

“ That is a good weapon of defence; I have no 
other.” 

“ I have a revolver, loaded,” said Harry. “ Tom 


278 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


made me carry it ever since I left the hospital. I 
should only use it in the direst extremity, and only 
for defence.” 

“ We must try to overpower him, if we can catch 
him,” said the Marquis. “ There is no doubt in my 
mind that he is a raving maniac by now.” 

As they left the house he called to the big gar- 
dener, Achille Negre, more than six feet tall. 

“ Follow us, Achille, as soon as you can, and bring 
a strong cord, — cut a clothes-line if necessary. 
Don’t delay.” 

The bewildered Achille Negre obeyed, and as the 
Marquis and Harry emerged through the wide arch 
of the gateway into the road below the Chateau, he 
was already walking down the hill fifty paces behind 
them. This road was generally used only at early 
morning and late in the afternoon by peasants driv- 
ing cattle to and from the market, or bringing home 
hay in heavy wagons, drawn by oxen, from the flat 
green valley that bordered the stream, and at midday 
it was usually as deserted as a path in some distant 
wilderness. On the right hand, as one came out from 
the Chateau, rose the great retaining wall of the ter- 
raced garden running along the road for half a mile. 
To the left was a wide meadow where in the first 
days of September the grass had all been mown. 
Now the fields were deserted, except for a few stray 
cows and goats. The sheep were all pastured, still, 
high up over the edge of the sandy precipices beyond 


THE DEED 


279 


the stream, on the plains called “ Les Gausses/’ 
There were many sharp turns in the road as it wound 
down toward the town of Saint-Lambert. 

After the Marquis and Harry had passed through 
the high arched gateway, the Chateau towered above 
them. They were thirty feet below its foundation. 
First came the kitchen, with store-rooms and a 
servants’ hall built on an inclined plane sloping back 
toward the carriage-drive and the stables, with doors 
and windows only on that side; so that the next 
storey above fronted upon the garden in the opposite 
direction. The long windows o-f the dining-room 
overlooked the road, and a wide balcony with an 
iron railing, ran across that end of the building 
nearly fifty feet above them. Still higher, came two 
upper floors with rows of bed-room windows, and 
last of all a high sloping roof, lighted by dormer 
windows, in which there was a big attic store-room 
and a number of servants’ rooms. The house dated 
only from the early Nineteenth Century, having 
been built out of the debris of the older Chateau 
destroyed during the Revolution. 

A voice called to the Marquis as he passed, and 
out of a first-floor window was thrust the head of 
Mademoiselle du Parquet. 

“ Please,” she said, “ if you gentlemen are walk- 
ing as far as the town, do bring Melanie back as soon 
as you can; otherwise, I fear she will forget the 
hour and be late to breakfast.” 


280 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


“ Where is she ? ” This question burst from the 
Marquis and Harry simultaneously. 

Achille Negre overtook them at this moment, but 
kept himself just behind them. His shirt-sleeves 
were rolled up above the elbow and he carried a stout 
cord wound about one tanned bare arm. 

Mademoiselle, bleating from the window, ex- 
plained : 

“ Melanie said she would only go as far as 
Madame Petit’s to order some lace; she left about 
five minutes ago.” 

The Marquis and Harry glanced at one another, 
and, without a word, they set off as fast as their 
legs could carry them down the road toward Saint- 
Lambert. They' could see no one ahead of them as 
far as the bend at the end of the high wall, a half 
mile away. The same thought was in both their 
minds : “ Suppose that she should meet him ! ” and 

they hastened on. As they approached the corner 
of the wall, they thought they could hear Melanie’s 
voice addressing some one ; and hastening their steps, 
but walking noiselessly on the grass along the way- 
side, they came to an abrupt turn in the road. 
Harry was in the lead, and making a sign to the 
Marquis and Achille Negre to stay where they were, 
he advanced alone to the edge of the wall where he 
could look around the corner and survey a lonely 
strip of road, hedged in by two high walls. What 


THE DEED 


281 


he saw seemed to make his heart stand still, and the 
blood freeze in his veins. Not twenty feet away, 
with her back turned to him, stood Melanie, dressed 
all in white; and approaching her along the road, 
facing Harry, was his Uncle Christopher, with an 
evil light in his bloodshot eyes. He was lurching 
like a drunken man, and muttering to himself. A 
soft felt hat was pulled low over his brows, but the 
silver and gold of his beard gleamed in the sunlight. 

“ Uncle Christopher!” called Melanie again, — 
clear and loud this time. “ Can it be you ! ” 

Sir Christopher made no answer; only he came 
lurching nearer until he stood still just in front of 
her, apparently uncertain what to do next. Then 
suddenly, as Melanie smiled up at him in bewilder- 
ment at his strange appearance, and was about to 
speak again, Sir Christopher, like a wild beast, 
sprang upon her. I do not know to this day whether 
he meant to kill her in a fit of insane frenzy, or 
whether he only meant to frighten her. Melanie, 
who was as agile as a squirrel, sprang to one side, 
and Sir Christopher sprawled at full length in the 
road. When he raised himself from the dust, Harry 
Leighton stood before him, face to face. With eyes 
starting from their sockets, Sir Christopher stood 
motionless for a moment, as though turned to stone ; 
then, raising both arms high above his head and 
shrieking, “ The body has been found ! The body 


282 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


has been found ! ” he fell, a huge, crumpled heap, in 
the middle of the dusty road, and lay writhing there 
in a kind of fit. 

The Marquis approached, closely followed by 
Achille Negre, with the rope wound about his arm; 
but there was no need to bind Sir Christopher. The 
contortion of his limbs subsided and he lay quite 
still, with no sign of life save a stertorous breathing, 
like the snore of a heavy sleeper. Melanie stood by, 
looking at him. The poor child was quite dazed 
with horror and could neither speak nor move. 
Harry, who had been kneeling beside his uncle, got 
up and took her by the hand : 

“ Don’t be frightened, my darling,” he said. 
“ All danger is past now. We knew that Uncle 
Christopher had been seized in London with a sud- 
den attack of insanity, and we learned only an hour 
ago that he had escaped from Tom Broadhurst, who 
has been watching him ; and that he was probably on 
his way to Saint-Lambert. Tom was afraid it might 
turn to a homicidal mania, but now that we have pos- 
session of him, there is no more danger.” 

The poor child clung to Harry. The Marquis 
and Achille Negre, with much difficulty, lifted Sir 
Christopher and laid him down on the roadside in the 
shadow of the grey wall. 

“Achille Negre,” said the Marquis, holding up 
his finger, “ this gentleman is a friend of mine who 
is suffering from a fit of insanity and has escaped 


THE DEED 


283 

from his family. A friend telegraphed to me that 
it was believed that the gentleman was coming here 
by the express train this morning. His friends 
want to get possesion of him and shut him up, for a 
while at least, in a Maison de Sante. It is very im- 
portant to keep the whole matter absolutely confi- 
dential; I trust to you, Achille Negre, not to breathe 
a word of what has occurred at the Chateau to any 
living soul. Go back and harness the two-horse 
station-wagon yourself, and bring it here at once, — 
yourself, mind ! ” 

Achille Negre promised absolute secrecy; and 
thirty minutes later, the station-wagon rattled into 
Saint-Lambert, bringing up at the Hotel du Nord. 

The “ foreign gentleman/' it appeared, had been 
noticed walking from the railway station through 
the street, and he had left his bag at the hotel as he 
passed, only saying, “ Une chambre pour ce soir.” 
The Marquis explained that the gentleman was a 
friend of his own, and had been taken suddenly ill 
on his way to make a call at the Chateau, and the 
Marquis had, fortunately, found him lying on the 
roadside. Sir Christopher was carried upstairs and 
put to bed in the best room, — rather frowsy — of 
the old hotel. Melanie had insisted upon coming 
too, and she had sat in the front of the wagon with 
Achille Negre. She controlled herself admirably, 
and chattered with the landlady of the inn while Sir 
Christopher was being put to bed upstairs. 


284 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


Harry sent at once for old Doctor Borel, who, as 
soon as he glanced at the patient, pronounced the 
trouble to be a coup de sang, or apoplectic stroke. 
He said bleeding might be efficacious, but Harry 
protested ; and the worthy doctor, having ordered a 
cold compress to be applied to the patient’s head, said 
that he would call again the next day. Doctor Borel 
shook his head, however, as he went downstairs, 
and said to Monsieur and Madame, that he thought 
the “ Stranger ” would probably die. 

“ C’est un Milord Anglais,” remarked the inn- 
keeper placidly. “ II parait qu’il est fou ! ” 

Melanie and her father and Harry contrived to get 
home unnoticed by either Lady Bolton or Mademoi- 
selle du Parquet, as both of these ladies had rooms 
looking on the garden, and were dressing for break- 
fast. To the question put to them at the table, “ Did 
you walk home ? ” they returned evasive answers, 
and Melanie, who had quite recovered her spirits, 
and whose cheeks glowed crimson, amused the whole 
company by imitating some of the patois spoken by 
the peasants. She had had no great love for Sir 
Christopher, and was much relieved that now he 
could do Harry no harm ; and she could have shouted 
aloud with joy to see Harry before her, strong and 
well, with only a red scar high on his forehead, in 
memory of the fearful danger through which he had 
passed. 


THE DEED 


285 


The events of the morning had left Harry not so 
exultant, for he was thinking of poor little Constance 
and her approaching wedding, and he was racking 
his brain how to keep Lady Bolton from finding out 
about Sir Christopher. As to the Marquis, I must 
confess that he felt very much shaken up, and he, 
too, dreaded any encounter with his belle-mere, 
should her curiosity be awakened ; for, as he used to 
tell her, she had a way of “ worming ” things out 
of him. 

“ I am always helpless in the hands of my belle- 
mere” he was wont to remark. And she would 
rejoin : 

“Don’t be a mouse, Adolphe! You know you 
are secretive, and you only talk like that to throw 
me off the scent, and make me think I’ve found out 
all I want to know ! ” 


CHAPTER XXXI 


i 

E ARLY on that same morning Tom Broadhurst 
arrived at the Ritz in Paris, took a bath and a 
hasty breakfast in Sir Christopher’s apartment, and 
held a consultation with the distracted Balters. 

“ Of course/’ said Tom, “ we must go as fast as 
possible to Saint-Lambert, but if we can get off at 
nine o’clock in a good automobile (it is now seven 
o’clock), we can sleep at Issoire and from there in 
three hours we can reach Saint-Lambert. If we 
leave Issoire at six o’clock to-morrow morning we 
shall have beaten to-night’s express train by one 
hour. The advantage of the motor is that we can 
carry Sir Christopher back with us far better than 
by train, and be less conspicuous.” 

Balters recovered his courage, stimulated by Tom’s 
presence and efficiency. 

“ I know just what to do, sir. At this season it is 
easy to hire a touring-car, and in the rue des Feuilles 
Mortes there is a man who will do anything for Sir 
Christopher. Two years ago Sir Christopher him- 
self brought Miss Constance over for two months, 
and hired a Panhard limousine. I sat with the 
286 


THE DEED 


287 


driver, sir. He was an excellent, careful man named 
Sabatier. Last year Miss Constance and Lady 
Louisa went to Brittany with him for a month. Oh, 
sir, if we could get that car and Sabatier! May I 
telephone ? ” 

“ By all means,” said Tom. “ You have hit upon 
the very best thing possible.” 

Balters came back in ten minutes, beaming. “ He 
says he is very glad, sir, to let us have a good 
limousine, and Sabatier, who has just finished a 
week’s engagement with a gentleman in Paris, is de- 
lighted to go. He loves long tours, sir.” 

Tom’s bag and a case of surgical instruments 
constituted all his luggage. Balters packed a large 
valise for Sir Christopher, and asked what to do 
about the rooms. “ Sir Christopher took them for 
a week, sir, and left word to keep them until his 
return.” 

Tom said he thought it would be better not to give 
them up. “ Who knows ? We may be back in four 
days, bringing him with us,” he said. 

At nine o’clock everything was stowed away, on 
top and inside of the automobile, with Balters sitting 
outside, quite cheerful, trying to talk French with his 
friend Sabatier, and Tom, with a newspaper and a 
book, inside of the limousine on the back seat. They 
rolled out into the Place Vendome, where the great 
column rose dark against a clear blue sky — poor 
Colonne Vendome, pulled down and re-erected! 


288 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


For me, who remember, the unmistakable petit 
caporal’s intrepid silhouette against the heavens 
above, the substituted Napoleon, a Roman emperor 
in a toga, holding the world in his hand, and re- 
sembling nobody in particular, suggests from the 
distance at which one beholds him nothing so much 
as a gentleman in an old-fashioned night-shirt, carry- 
ing his bed-room candle ! 

The motor rolled smoothly along, and no contre- 
temps delayed the travellers on their journey. As 
they had planned to do, they slept that night in a 
frowsy inn at the ancient town of Issoire. 

ii 

Meantime, things progressed satisfactorily at 
Saint-Lambert. Two Dominican sisters, who were 
caring for the patient alternately, reported to Harry 
when he called that evening to see his uncle, that 
Sir Christopher had been quiet all day long and 
breathing more easily, and the good Doctor Borel, 
who came in at that moment, said that the case did 
not seem nearly as hopeless as in the morning. 

“ There must have been some terrible nervous 
shock in addition to the rupture of a small vein,” he 
said, “ and that increased all the bad symptoms, 
which are now subsiding.” If the patient could 
swallow, he recommended a st tisane de chien-dent” 
a favourite panacea for all ills in our primitive 
country. 


THE DEED 


289 


Harry walked home under the wonderful, deep 
sky of the Cevennes, lighted by stars that gleam with 
an Egyptian splendour. The next morning as he 
was approaching, on foot, the Hotel du Nord, at 
about nine o’clock, the cheerful toot of a motor- 
horn announced an arrival from the other side. To 
Harry’s infinite satisfaction he beheld Balters seated 
beside the chauffeur of a big touring-car, covered 
with dust, and the head of Tom Broadhurst thrust 
through an open window from the inside. 

It was a joyful meeting. After everything was 
explained, they all went upstairs. Sir Christopher 
lay still and quite pale, but his breathing was regu- 
lar. The nun at his bedside said that at six o’clock 
he had opened his eyes and seemed half conscious. 

“ He called me a black ghost,” she said, “ and 
asked what I was doing here, but when I held a cup 
of tisane de chien-dent to his lips he drank it all 
without a word, only with a slight grimace, and fell 
asleep.” 

Tom examined Sir Christopher silently and lis- 
tened carefully to his heart with a stethoscope. 
“ He is wonderfully strong physically,” he said. 
“ It must have been an exceedingly small blood- 
vessel that was ruptured, if any. There is really 
almost nothing the matter with him now, except 
some psychic changes. I fancy it was Harry’s sud- 
den appearance that actually upset him. It was a 
terrible shock to his unstrung nerves. It will be 


290 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

interesting to know how much he will remember 
when he comes to himself. Sometimes after a 
severe electric shock the entire memory of recent 
events is wiped out, for a time or altogether and this 
is much the same thing.” 

Harry went home, and two hours later Sir Chris- 
topher stirred and half opened his eyes: “ I don’t 
know where I am,” were his first words, spoken in a 
feeble voice, “ and I don’t know why I am in charge 
of a black ghost who makes me drink some queer 
stuff, I don’t now what.” 

Tom stepped forward. “ You are in good hands, 
Sir Christopher.” 

Sir Christopher blinked his eyes and stared at 
Tom. “ I don’t know who you are, but you seem 
to know what you are talking about,” he said. His 
voice was low but very quiet; the storm was over. 

Tom beckoned to Balters, who approached the bed 
with quivering lips, while two tears rolled down his 
cheeks. “ My master, don’t you know me ? ” 

“ Why, Balters, you old fool, of course I do,” 
was the answer. The servant threw himself on his 
knees and buried his head in the bed-clothes. 
“ Don’t be an ass,” said Sir Christopher. “ There’s 
nothing much the matter with me. I’ll soon be all 
right ; but I wish I knew where I am.” 

“I am a doctor,” said Tom. “ You must keep 
quiet and leave everything to me. You are not at 
home now, but you will be in a few days from now. 


THE DEED 


291 

You must eat and sleep when I tell you to, and ask 
no questions.” 

“All right,” answered Sir Christopher. “Go 
ahead.” 

Three days later, Sir Christopher, who had eaten 
and slept admirably, and had asked no questions, 
was dressed and packed comfortably into the limou- 
sine by Balters. Harry, who, of course, had not 
been allowed to see him, looked on from an upper 
window of the hotel and saw the big touring-car 
drive away, Sir Christopher leaning back inside, 
propped by pillows, with his eyes shut, and Tom 
beside him. 

As Harry walked back to the Chateau of Saint- 
Lambert in the vivid sunshine, the whole of the 
doings of the past week seemed like a ghastly and 
fantastic dream. It was well over. “ Thank God 
for Tom Broadhurst! ” said Harry devoutly. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


D URING the three days that Sir Christopher 
remained in the inn at Saint-Lambert, ex- 
cursions in the automobile had been arranged in 
every other direction, in order to keep Lady Bolton 
away from the town, where indeed there was nothing 
especially to attract her, but where she sometimes 
walked if left to herself, because the road was more 
level in that direction than toward the mountains. 
Lady Bolton, as I have said before, execrated auto- 
mobiles, and never set foot in one in England, but 
she really enjoyed very much the motor drives near 
Saint-Lambert, because the high-roads ( routes na 
tionales) which have been so perfect everywhere in 
France are still smooth in this desert land where 
automobiles have not played havoc with them. They 
wind up and down the steep mountain-sides like 
broad white ribbons, binding together all the more 
important towns, passing through little villages and 
hamlets, and climbing high over the lonely mountain- 
tops where in winter the snow lies so thick that it 
makes an impassable barrier. The Marquis had 
persuaded Lady Bolton that nothing could be safer 
than motoring in the Cevennes. 

292 


THE DEED 


293 


On the Saturday morning when Sir Christopher 
departed from Saint-Lambert, Mile, du Parquet, re- 
turning as usual after early Mass, with the cook, 
from market (Melanie always walked to and from 
church when she went on week-days), happened to 
stop at the Hotel du Nord for a hamper sent front 
Paris. Noticing a large automobile just moved out 
from the garage next door, she asked if there were 
many guests in the hotel. 

“ No strangers except the milord anglais ” an- 
swered Madame Boyer ; “ the one who has been so 
ill, and who goes away to-day with his doctor and 
servant.” 

“ Who is he ? ” asked Mile, du Parquet, her 
curiosity aroused. 

“ I do not know, mademoiselle, but Monsieur le 
Marquis knows the gentleman well,” answered the 
landlady, “ and Monsieur Leighton also.” 

Before she could say any more she was called 
away by Balters, who, suspecting that she was talk- 
ing about his master, demanded, “ Le factoor, s’il 
vous play ! ” Mile, du Parquet drove home, very 
curious to know more about the stranger. When 
she had finished her coffee she heard the Marquis de 
Vaudreuil’s motor-car driving away from the 
chateau and snorting loudly as it turned the sharp 
corner under the archway and took the road toward 
the mountains. She had been told that only the 
Marquis and Lady Bolton were going to drive that 


294 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


day, and that they expected to dejeuner with the 
Comte and Comtesse de Lacrosse, thirty miles away, 
— “ Another day for those two young people to be 
by themselves,” she thought with a shiver of dis- 
approval. But a moment later, looking from a win- 
dow in the corridor, she was pleased to see Harry 
Leighton walking fast and alone down the road 
toward Saint-Lambert. At least they would not 
be all the morning together ! 

At dinner that night Mile, du Parquet suddenly 
asked the Marquis if his friend the “ milord 
anglais ” had been very ill ; and added, “ I mean the 
gentleman at the Hotel du Nord, about whom I 
heard this morning. ,, 

Lady Bolton at once exclaimed, “ Dear me ! who 
is it ? Why did you not tell us all about it ? ” 

The Marquis, who had concocted a plausible tale 
beforehand which would suit an emergency, mani- 
fested consternation. “ It is nothing,” he said. “ I 
did not want you to hear about it.” 

“ Why not ? ” asked his mother-in-law, fastening 
an eagle eye upon him. 

“ Because,” said the Marquis, fixing a set gaze 
upon the tablecloth, and speaking fast, “ this gen- 
tleman (who was no friend of mine) was hurt three 
days ago in an automobile accident, coming from the 
Gorges du Tarn, and I did not want you, my dear 
belle-mere , to hear of it; because, knowing your 
hatred of automobiles, I feared that if the news of an 


THE DEED 


295 


accident in our neighbourhood should reach your 
ears, you might refuse to go on motor excursions, 
even when you are with me. Et cela me ferait tant 
de peine !” he said, looking up with an affectionate 
smile. 

This story was so ben trovato that even Lady 
Bolton was taken in for once, and only grunted, “ I 
shan’t go again for some time ! ” 

Harry said to the Marquis, “ He got off all right 
this morning. I don’t think he was much hurt,” 
and so Sir Christopher’s journey to Saint-Lambert 
passed into oblivion. No more questions were asked 
about it by anybody. 

Harry had already learned that Tom, in answer to 
an anxious telegram from Constance to her father, 
which he had found in the letter-box at Leighton 
House (Balters having given him the latch-key) on 
the day of Sir Christopher’s departure for Paris, had 
wired, “ Leaving to-day for a week’s shooting in 
Scotland, perhaps longer. Wish no letters sent. 
Shall give no address. Don’t fret. Feeling better.” 
To this despatch Tom had signed Sir Christopher’s 
name. 

“ I felt like the villain in a sensational novel,” he 
said. “ But I think that the ladies at Leighton 
Towers won’t worry. They did not expect Sir 
Christopher to come back for another ten days when 
he first went away to visit Harry, and they know 
the story of Harry’s adventure and earlier departure 


296 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


for France, in the shape in which Sir Christopher 
himself told it to them. Miss Constance will nat- 
urally think that her father needs rest and amuse- 
ment to distract his mind after the awful experience 
of last week.” 

“ It is my fervent hope that she may never know 
the truth,” said Harry. 

“ I think I can manage that ! ” said Tom, as he 
shook hands with Harry and went downstairs. 

The travellers in the touring-car rolled along 
swiftly toward Clermont-Ferrand, where a halt was 
to be made for luncheon. “ If all goes well, we 
shall sleep at Nevers,” Tom had informed Harry. 
“ Balters will run up from there to Paris, pay the 
hotel bill, and collect the rest of Sir Christopher’s 
effects, while your uncle will take a day’s rest at 
the Hotel de France, and next day we shall push on 
to Calais, cross over, and be in London, I hope, day 
after to-morrow night.” 

“ How about money? ” Harry asked Tom. 

“ Oh, that is all right,” answered Tom, laughing. 
“ I have your uncle’s wallet containing a lot of ready 
money. You see, he did not want to go to a bank, 
so he brought a hundred pounds with him, in cash. 
Balters and I will arrange the accounts, and Sir 
Christopher will never know where the money is 
spent. I’m going to give him a morphia injection 
or two before crossing the Channel, if his attention 
gets too much aroused. It won’t hurt him a bit, 


THE DEED 


297 


and will serve to dim his memory of the immediate 
past. We shall hire wheeled chairs and all the other 
paraphernalia of a distinguished invalid.” 

Everything happened as Tom had planned. On 
the third day after the departure from Saint-Lam- 
bert, Harry received the following message : “ Ar- 

rived, all well, am wiring Leighton Towers as fol- 
lows: Your father taken ill in Scotland, all right 
now, no cause for anxiety, am bringing him home 
to-morrow.” 

“ Thank God,” said Harry. “ Everything seems 
to be coming out all right. Tom has a great head 
and is a great liar when necessity in his profession 
compels him! He has not read such a lot of de- 
tective novels for nothing, either.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


T HE next week was uneventful. On the bright 
Sunday morning which followed it, Lady 
Bolton was seated by the open window in her room 
at Saint-Lambert. She was reading a little book 
that she had picked up the night before from my 
writing-table, before going upstairs. 

“ I thought Saint-Chely was a place, not a per- 
son ? ” she had remarked, looking at the title : 
“ Saint-Chely, Pretre Professeur.” 

“ That was the name of a peasant priest,” I an- 
swered her, “ who was for ten years Professor of 
rhetoric at the Petit Seminaire at Mende. I knew 
him and loved him. He died three years ago, only 
thirty-five years old. His old mother still lives at 
Saint-Chely d’Apcher, twenty miles away. She lives 
a life of hard work and of patient waiting on God. 
Morning and evening she goes to the old church, 
and she prays in the churchyard at the graves of her 
husband and of her thirteen children. Her son, the 
Abbe Saint-Chely, has written (in a page of his diary 
which you will read), after the death of the twelfth 
child, his sister Marie : ‘ The stone slabs which 

cover the graves of my father and of the twelve chil- 
dren, have been worn by the knees of my mother 
298 


THE DEED 


299 


praying.’ Now he, too, lies in his grave beside the 
others, and the old mother still prays, and waits 
patiently on God.” 

“May I take the book upstairs?” asked Lady 
Bolton. “ I should like to read it to-morrow morn- 
ing for my Sunday service.” 

I am going to translate and put into this chapter 
of my story a few pages from the life of the Abbe 
Saint-Chely, not only because I want to give an idea, 
to any one reading this story, of the Lozerian charac- 
ter and priesthood, but because Lady Bolton showed 
me the book five months later and said to me: 
“ Adolphe, I need not tell you how much I owe to 
this little book, or how the humble and obscure life of 
this young priest among his people has illuminated 
all the dark places in my mind, and given me a right 
understanding of those who literally and with their 
whole hearts follow the Way, the Truth, and the 
Life.” I myself wish I could give this little book to 
the whole erring and unbelieving world, saying: 
‘ Tolle, lege ! ’ ” As this is also the opinion of my 
belle-mere , so remarkable a woman, these words of 
mine are more an explanation than an apology, for 
dedicating a chapter to the Abbe Saint-Chely — my 
dead friend. 

The Abbe Saint-Chely was ordained the last week 
of December, 1894, and said his first Mass on the 
feast of Saint John, December twenty-seventh. 

The life of the young priest at the Seminary in 


3 oo SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


Toulouse, when he returned to pursue a post-ordina- 
tion course of study, scientific and literary, is thus 
described : “ After the joys of ordination came the 

fever of hard work, and what a work it was ! He 
had to learn d fond the Greek Grammar, the Latin 
Grammar, the Comparative Grammar. There was a 
Greek theme every week, a Latin dissertation every 
two weeks, elucidations and explanations of ancient 
writers, besides philology, and metric Greek and 
Latin. French literature had also its place. No 
time was lost. The breviary and the rosary often 
infringed upon the recreation hours. There was a 
walk once a week, a visit to shops, to the Capitol, to 
the Basilica of Saint-Sernin and other churches, a 
pilgrimage to the tomb of Sainte Germaine de Pil- 
rac, an Advent preached by the Pere Monsabre; a 
few musical matinees, Jeanne d'Arc of Gounod, 
Handel’s Messiah , Sebastian Bach’s Passion accord- 
ing to Saint Matthew. These constituted the dis- 
tractions of his two years as a student after his 
ordination.” There are certainly in Toulouse and 
elsewhere, students who are not priests, who do not 
lead such a life as this. 

It reminds one of the life led in Athens by two 
friends, Saint Basil the Great and Saint Gregory of 
Nazianzen. In the funeral discourse pronounced in 
A.D. 380 upon his departed friend, Saint Basil, 
Saint Gregory thus describes their student life at 
Athens: “ We knew but two roads — one (the 


THE DEED 


301 


better) leading to the sacred temples where sate the 
wise doctors; the second (a little less attractive), 
which led us to the teachers who lived outside. As 
to the roads that conducted to banquets, theatres, 
public festivals and political meetings, we left these 
to others most willingly. There are some persons 
who receive from their parents, or gain by their own 
efforts, a great name; but the greatest name of all, 
and the greatest thing to gain, is to be Christians. 
According to the opinion of many good people, 
Athens is a plague to the soul ; but I may say for our 
two selves, that it worked no evil to us.” 

The Abbe Saint-Chely died in March, 1906, of a 
nervous disease of the heart brought on by over- 
work. In conclusion, I transcribe here some pages 
marked in pencil by Lady Bolton, in which his dear 
friend, the Abbe Delon, gives an account of his last 
hours. 

“ March 17th, 1906. He said to his mother early 
in the morning, ‘ I have passed a good night ; I was 
constantly at the feet of the Cross, and the Lord was 
on the Cross. One cannot easily understand how 
sweet it really is to die.' At half-past nine, Mon- 
seigneur de Ligonnes, the Bishop of Rodez, came to 
see him. The Abbe kissed his pectoral cross with 
great affection and said to him, * My father, here is 
my mother; give her your blessing/ Monseigneur 
blessed the poor mother, whispering to her, ' Bonne 
Mere ! * 


302 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


“ March 18th, 9 o’clock. The Doctor came and 
gave him a hypodermic of caffeine; he had an attack 
of difficulty of -breathing, and sweated abundantly. 
To assist him to bear this suffering, I read to him 
from the Opuscules of Bossuet, the fourth prayer, 
the one which he loved so dearly, which begins: 
‘At sight of death , the Christian renews his acts of 
faith , of hope , and of charity. The time is at hand, 
oh Lord, when the shadows shall be lifted and faith 
shall be changed into vision. The time is at hand 
when I shall sing with the Psalmist, “ Oh, God, we 
have seen that which we have heard ! ” Oh, Lord, 
all things appear to us which have been foretold; I 
have but a moment more, and then in a twinkling 
of an eye, I shall behold all Thy wonders. My 
Saviour, I believe. Help Thou mine unbelief! ’ 
And the prayer ends : ‘ But, oh, my Church, there 

is no farewell to be said to thee, for I shall find thee 
in Heaven in the Divine centre of thy Being. I 
shall behold thy source and thy end ; the prophets and 
the apostles, thy foundation; the martyrs, thy vic- 
tims; the virgins, thy flowers; the confessors, thine 
adornment; all the saints, thine intercessors. My 
Church, I close my eyes, and I say to thee, farewell 
on earth, but I shall find thee again in Heaven ! ’ 
When I finished the prayer, the fit was over, and he 
gazed at us like a man who comes to himself and 
tries to recognize faces and places. 

“ * Did you hear ? ’ I asked. 


THE DEED 


303 


44 4 Oh, yes, you have done well ! and I heard, too, 
my mother weeping. That hurt me ; oh, my mother, 
you must be more generous ! ’ Then after a pause, 
he said : 

44 4 1 saw very beautiful things/ 

44 4 You have no fear/ I asked, 4 of the demon? 
Mala bestia? ’ 

“ ‘Mauvaise bete, indeed/ he answered, 4 but I 
have no fear of him/ 

44 1 mentioned the names of all whom he specially 
loved, and he blessed them all, promising to pray 
for them in Heaven. He blessed also every one 
present. Pointing to the foot of his bed on the left, 
he said : 4 There is my little sister/ That little 

sister of whom he had so often said, 4 Since her 
death, everything that I have asked of her I have 
obtained/ Then he pointed to the right, exclaiming, 
4 There is my father ! ’ and with a glad smile, he held 
out his arms. A few moments later he asked to re- 
cite with me a prayer in which the dying Christian re- 
peats the seven last sentences of Our Lord upon the 
cross. At the last words he paused a moment, and 
then with a supreme effort, he said with all his soul : 
' In manus taas commendo spiritum meum / Then 
he turned his eyes upon us. 4 How sweet it is/ he 
said, 4 to die in the arms of God in the midst of 
friends/ and he repeated the words of Saint Theresa, 
4 1 never knew before how sweet it is to die/ 

44 At midnight, the friends who were present re- 


304 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


tired from the room. Every half hour when he was 
given a drink, he recited an Ave Maria, and he 
looked with love at a statue of the Blessed Virgin 
placed at the foot of the bed. Once I heard him 
say, * Oh, my Mother in Heaven, how I thank thee 
that thou hast kept me pure my whole life long; 
merci, merci!’ At two o’clock in the morning he 
asked for the presence of a friend who came into the 
room, and after hearing what the dying priest 
wished to say to him, retired at once to write down 
these memorable words : 4 My dear friend, your 

sympathy has been a great solace to me. I cannot 
show to you my gratitude here below, for I feel that 
I must go away. But, when I shall be in Heaven, 
ask whatever you wish and I shall never abandon 
you. Be faithful; remember that faith alone is of 
any consequence. If you would bring souls to God, 
you, yourself, must be fervent in faith. Be gener- 
ous; go squarely to work in everything; never be 
stopped by small obstacles. Mortify your flesh; be- 
lieve me, I speak from experience. I wished to say 
these words to you before going from hence. Do 
not be reckless, either, of your health, for that has 
brought me where I now lie. I bless you. I bless 
your family. Embrace me one last time. Au 
revoir in Heaven. Be faithful to this rendez-vous! ’ 
“ The next morning at half-past seven, Jean Bap- 
tiste Marie Saint-Chely died peacefully in his 
mother’s arms, conscious to the last. In the family 


THE DEED 


305 


record there appears in his own handwriting : ‘ In 

1871, on the first of July, a boy was born, and was 
baptized on the second by the Abbe Poulalion. He 
was given the names, Jean-Baptiste Marie. He was 
ordained a priest the 26th of December, 1894. May 
God give to him the grace of a good death.’ His 
life and his death bear witness that on the 20th of 
March, 1906, the good God answered this prayer. 
' Consummate in breve, explevit tempora mult a/ ” 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


L ADY BOLTON’S tears spattered the pages of 
the little book at intervals as she read the 
pitiful story of the life and death of this peasant 
priest, and, after she had finished, she laid the book 
down upon the table, and, sinking to her knees, 
buried her face in the soft cushion of the armchair. 
Her tears fell still as she prayed silently to God. 
She told me afterwards she never would forget that 
hour. When she arose from her knees, she drew 
the chair nearer to the open window, and seating 
herself she leaned back, taking in deep breaths of 
the pure sweet mountain air, while her eyes wan- 
dered over the arid outline of the distant True du 
Midi, whose huge square summit of grey rock and 
cliff stood out sharp and clear against a cloudless 
sky. Suddenly, over the edge of the high bank 
beyond the stream (which seemed more a precipice 
than a bank, being composed of an almost perpen- 
dicular mass of loose stones towering several hun- 
dred feet above the river), there appeared a flock of 
grimy mountain sheep, pouring swiftly like a cas- 
cade down the narrow sinuous path; eager to leave 
the high and now dry causses, and descend to the 
streams and valleys below. 

306 


THE DEED 


307 


“ How they keep together ! ” Lady Bblton thought, 
as she watched their close, unbroken, waving line. 
“ They are not like those others : * all we, like sheep, 
have gone astray ’ ! ” And the chorus from the 
“ Messiah ” sounded in her memory. She had come 
in her mind to the end of the fugue, where the great 
anthem bursts forth : “ And the Lord hath laid on 

Him, on Him the iniquity of us all ! ” when there 
came a knock at the door, and Timmins brought in 
some letters and a newspaper ; after which she noise- 
lessly retired, leaving Lady Bolton to read her mail 
in peace. The sun was just beginning to creep 
around the edge of the window frame, and a golden 
shaft struck full upon Ophelia lying in white splen- 
dour upon a large blue cushion. Ophelia rolled over 
on his back and stretched his paws lazily to greet it. 
Lady Bolton patted the cat and then inspected the 
mail. 

“ Why have not they sense enough to keep bills 
until I come back ? ” she said, throwing aside several 
large envelopes, and selecting a letter addressed to 
her in a clear, fine and “ foreign ” handwriting, with 
a London post-mark. 

“ I don’t know what this can be,” she murmured 
as she opened the envelope. 

A moment later, Lady Bolton burst out crying 
just like any ordinary “ mere woman.” (I must say 
that I like to see my belle-mere cry. The first time 
was a great relief to my mind. I had been so afraid 


3 o8 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


of her. She looks absolutely incapable of any 
female weakness; but when she yields to it, she 
does it so thoroughly, so convincingly). After she 
had wiped her eyes and blown her Field-Marshal 
nose, Lady Bolton went on reading with a dry sob 
at intervals. The letter was from the Padre Al- 
varez, and this is what he wrote : 

" My Lady: 

“ You will pardon my imperfect English, I know, 
but I wish to write directly myself to you, and you 
told me that you no longer understood well Spanish. 
You have been the benefactress of the poor artist, 
Cosmo Blight, and, with God's grace and mercy, it 
is you who has helped to bring him home at the end. 
For he is dead, my Lady, with a death that makes 
joy to the angels. Two days after your Ladyship 
has left London, I went to see Mr. Cosmo Blight, 
and found him very weak; but worst of all, his 
guardian niece, as I was leaving an hour later, fell 
in a fit upon the floor, in the corridor outside her 
uncle's room. I telephoned at once to the doctor 
to whom your Ladyship had directed her, because 
I knew that you would have it so. He was at 
home, and he answered me that he had expected 
something like such a serious attack, and that his 
assistant, with a nurse, would call to take the poor 
woman to the hospital, which was done, and where 
she died in a violent fit the next day. I had to 


THE DEED 


309 


break this bad news gently as possible to your poor 
friend, and he fainted. I held his hand until he 
had recovered his conscience, when he said to me, 
‘ What can I do ? I would rather that I should die 
than to go to a hospital.’ 

“ ‘ That shall not be,’ I answered. 4 If you 
would have two nuns to nurse you, I can arrange 
it. Otherwise, Lady Bolton’s doctor might per- 
haps provide trained nurses.’ 

“ He looked pitifully at me, his eyes scared like 
a wounded animal. 

“ ‘ Do not leave me, Padre,’ he said. ‘ Arrange 
as you will, but only keep near to me, and come 
as often as you can.’ 

“ So this was arranged. He had dreadful pain 
for two days; suffering agony as he used often 
to say, in the right arm (which had been cut off). 
The good Sister who stayed at night with him 
told me that in his anguish he swore dreadful oaths, 
quickly, one after the other, as if he hardly knew 
what he was saying. She told him, after the pain 
was passed, that such language was wicked in the 
sight of God, and she taught to him other words — 
appeals to mercy. 

" ‘ Can you not say these words instead ? ’ she 
asked, ‘ for no blessing can come upon a house 
where curses are.’ 

“ He smiled at her with his pale face, and he 
said : 


3io SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


“ * Sister, I will try for your sake/ 

“ When the nun who came by day heard of this 
on the morrow — she is young and very zealous — 
she asked him would he wear a little medal of 
Our Lady round his neck. But he pushed the 
medal gently away with his one hand. 

“ * No, no, I could not ! ’ he said with decision. 

“ So the Sister drove with a hammer into the 
wall a little tack, at the head of his bed, and she 
hung the little medal upon it. He only smiled 
when she did this, and said he did not mind to have 
it there. This nun was going into a retreat four days 
later and another one was to take her place. She 
said good-bye to Mr. Cosmo Blight, and when she 
told him why she was going, he said to her, 4 Sister, 
pray for me, that I may have faith/ 

“ On that day I sat with him all the afternoon. 
He was very weak, but more peaceful than I have 
ever seen him to be. He asked me would I read 
to him some of the psalms, and after that, to read 
in the gospel about the birth of Our Lord. When 
I took leave of him, he said, as if half to himself, 
‘ It seems natural and reasonable, what else can 
there be?’ And I answered him with the words 
of Saint Peter: ‘ Lord, to whom shall we go? 
Thou hast the words of Eternal Life!’ He 
pressed my hand, but said nothing, and then he 
went to sleep. Toward morning he awoke sud- 
denly and said to the watching Sister, * Please give 


THE DEED 


3 11 


me what hangs on the wall at the head of my 
bed/ and he stretched up his one hand to indicate 
the little medal which Sister Dominica had hung 
there. When the medal was fastened about his 
neck, he held it in his hand and fell asleep. 

“ I will not make this letter too long, my Lady. 
On Tuesday last, he had a sinking fit, almost he 
fainted, and he asked that they would send for 
me. When I went to him, he told me quite simply 
that he wished to be baptized and to receive the 
Blessed Sacrament. The next morning his wish 
was fulfilled. That day was his last on earth, and 
I may say, my Lady, that it was also the happiest 
day of his long life. He spoke very little, only 
asking me to write to you, and to give to you the 
book by Cardinal Newman which he was reading 
when you came to say good-bye — (I shall take 
it to you in Paris.) He spoke no word after that. 
He lay at peace, with the crucifix in his hand, 
pressed against his heart, and upon his face there 
was such a happy smile, as though he could see 
Heaven. He died unconscious and without pain 
in the evening at seven o’clock. His brother and 
sister-in-law came yesterday morning with a will, 
dated more than a year ago, in which he left to 
them what little he possessed in this world, and 
asked to have his body cremated. They have the 
legal right to it, so nothing was said to them of 
what I have told you; but his poor corpse was 


312 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


blessed with holy water, and we said the prayers 
for the dead before it was put in a little coffin — so 
small, like that of a child — and taken away. This 
happened a half hour ago, this, Friday morning, 
and I am sitting in the room where he died, writing 
this letter to you. 

“ Pardon its length, my Lady; I thought that 
you would like to know all that occurred. While 
not a Catholic, I know that you must rejoice over 
so good a death, and perhaps — who knows? — 
this little dead artist may help others, besides him- 
self, to come from darkness into Light Eternal. 

“ My Lady, I am, 

“ Your faithful servant in Christ, 

“ Jose Francisco Alvarez.” 

Lady Bolton got up, went to the door and locked 
it. Then she knelt down upon her knees, and for 
the first time in her life, she prayed for the dead 
— for the soul of Cosmo Blight. She knew by 
heart in Latin the “ De profundis,” but never be- 
fore had she recited it for a departed spirit, and 
she ended with the “ Requiem seternam dona ei, 
Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei.” 

When Melanie came back, she, too, cried over 
the news of Cosmo Blight’s death, but when she 
had read the letter, 

“ Oh, Bonnemaman!” she exclaimed. “ What 
a glorious thing! The eternal peace and light at 


THE DEED 


3i3 


last ! ” Then Melanie added, with a ghost of a 
smile, “ You are not sorry, are you, Bonnemaman, 
that he did not become an Anglican ?” 

“ I don’t well see how he could have ! ” Lady 
Bolton acknowledged, — and it was for her an im- 
portant concession. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


M Y narrative of events is nearing its end. 

On the twelfth of October we were all 
assembled at my hotel in the Rue de Monsieur, 
for the wedding of Harry and Melanie, which was 
to take place on the fifteenth in my private chapel. 
The Padre Alvarez had arrived the night before, 
also Tom Broadhurst. The- latter brought news 
of Sir Christopher Leighton. 

“ He is getting along physically all right, al- 
though of course he will never he the same man 
that he was, before. He looks his age now, and 
more. His memory is still very confused, but he 
has snatches of real remembrance like intermittent 
flashes of light. I have persuaded him, however, 
that these glimpses of reality are only nightmares 
of his past illness and that he really went to Scot- 
land (which of course he does not remember). I 
tell him that a small blood-vessel in his brain burst 
after dinner on the night of his arrival in Scotland. 
We don’t mention where all this happened and, 
in order to prevent future inquiry on his part, I 
tell him, as his doctor, that he must never refer 
to the past four weeks of his life and try not to 
314 


THE DEED 


3i5 


remember. I was rather taken aback, as you may 
imagine, when his daughter, whom I had previously 
warned, blurted out a few days ago, in a moment 
of forgetfulness: ‘I think dear papa’s illness all 
came from worrying over Harry, don’t you, Dr. 
Broadhurst?’ And then, before I could prevent 
her, she repeated to Sir Christopher his own story, 
about Harry throwing himself into the Thames in 
a fit of temporary insanity. I was extremely anx- 
ious to see the effect upon my patient, and appre- 
hensive — ” 

“ I should think,” broke in Harry, “ that this 
would have brought back his memory.” 

“ On the contrary,” Tom answered, “ it quite re- 
lieved his mind. ‘ I believe these papists are all 
more or less daft,’ your uncle said. ‘ My poor 
brother Gerald never was quite in his right mind. 
I am very glad to have this matter cleared up,’ he 
added, patting Constance’s hand, 4 and that the 
March Hare has told me the truth about it; for 
some of my frightful dreams evidently hinged upon 
this occurrence, and as “ dreams go by contraries,” 
it seemed to me, in these horrid nightmares, that 
I was pursuing Harry, with a mad desire to kill 
him. I seemed to have got it into my head that 
it would be a good thing to do ! ’ 

“ Sir Christopher frowned, and fell silent a mo- 
ment, then : ‘ By the way,’ he exclaimed suddenly, 
4 what has become of that old fool of a Professor 


3 i6 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


who came down, as I dimly remember, to Leighton 
Towers one night, and afterward one day to Ravens- 
hurst for a luncheon? Those two occasions are 
quite distinct, though dim, in my memory, and 
everything that happened afterwards is a blur. 
How long has it been?’ I answered that it was 
only three or four weeks. ‘ It seems an age/ Sir 
Christopher said. ‘And where is the old fool?" 
he asked again. I told him that the Professor 
was helping to enlighten the world at another great 
Eugenic Congress in Berlin this week. ‘ I hope I 
may never see him again/ exclaimed Sir Christo- 
pher. ‘ His extreme is even worse than Popery! 
It turns everything upside down. There’s no real 
right or wrong left in the universe after all this 
humbug has had full swing.’ 

“ I said good-bye to Sir Christopher and came 
away,” Tom concluded, “ leaving him with Miss 
Constance. She is the one thing that he cares about 
in the whole world, and I really believe that with 
her, and her possible children, Sir Christopher is 
safe enough for the future, and that the ‘ touch 
of the madman ’ is obliterated. You remember, 
Harry, I read to you Chesterton’s words one day 
down at Warmouth : * Curing a madman is not 
arguing with a philosopher, it is casting out a devil.’ 
Well, I think we’ve cast the devil out. I think we 
have; only perhaps you had better keep out of his 
way, for some time, at any rate.” 


THE DEED 


317 


“ That is easy,” said Harry. “ We two are go- 
ing to Italy for the winter, and shan’t be in Lon- 
don until next May. Besides, as you know, my 
uncle and I have never seen much of each other 
at any time, and we shall be meeting Constance and 
Sydney always in the summer-time at Lady Bol- 
ton’s country place, and often too in London. We 
don’t need to go to Leighton Towers at all. 
‘ Granny ’ is looking forward to having us all dur- 
ing at least two months of the year with her near 
Bristol. I think Sir Christopher positively dis- 
likes Melanie, and it will be very easy to keep our 
distance.” 

“ He did ask if you were still bent upon marry- 
ing that French girl ‘ who has such a spice of her 
old American grandmother in her/ ” said Tom, 
laughing. “ And when I said yes, and that I was 
going over to the wedding, he remarked that he 
supposed it could not be helped, and he hoped it 
would not turn out very badly. He also said he 
was glad that there was none of that old lady’s 
blood in Sydney’s veins ! ” 

A letter came that evening from Constance. 

“ Dear children,” she wrote, “ You know how I 
pray for your happiness and how much I love you, 
and how dearly Sydney loves you too. We are 
as happy as two March Hares, now that dear papa 
is better. What a kind heart he has! Only think 
that this horrid attack in Scotland was hastened, 


318 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

if not caused, by his anxiety for Harry. Don’t 
let Harry bathe in ice-cold water again when he is 
over-heated ! ” 

“ I forgot to say,” interposed Tom, hastily, “ that 
I explained Harry’s supposed aberration by an ice- 
cold bath taken when he was tired and hot on his 
arrival in London. It is easy to delude non- 
professional persons, especially innocent things like 
Miss Constance.” 

“ Dear Papa,” Constance continued, “ seems posi- 
tively to dislike only one person in the world — 
that dreadful old smirking and wicked Professor 
Wilson, who filled Papa’s mind with such horrid 
infidelity. Let me tell you what happened to-day. 

“ I opened the door of the library and was about 
to come in when I noticed Papa, whose back was 
turned to me, pick up a small book from the table 
with the tongs! I recognised a horrid little pam- 
phlet called The Religion of the Future,’ which the 
Professor had given him, and which Papa seemed 
to like very much at that time, and worried Aunt 
Louisa and me awfully by trying to read some of 
it aloud to us. Well, dear Papa picked it up (as 
I said) with the tongs, and he thrust it into a 
bed of live coals in the fireplace, and the nasty 
thing shrivelled up and turned into cinders and 
yellow smoke. When Papa turned about and saw 
me looking on, he seemed a little shamefaced. 


THE DEED 


3 J 9 


Then he laughed. ‘ Conny dear/ Papa said, ‘ I 
think the world had better be left as we found it ! ' 
Thank goodness, that old professor’s trail has been 
fumigated ! Dear Papa, he seems cheerful and 
happy, although so much older — at least ten years 
older — than last year. His sight in one eye is bad, 
and he thinks he may have to give up shooting. 

“ Well, good-bye, and God bless you, my dears. 
We’ll all meet in June at Granny’s. Give her lots 
of love from us both, and tell her to hurry over 
for our wedding! ” 

So ended Constance’s letter. Lady Bolton shook 
her head. “ There is something uncanny about Sir 
Christopher all the same,” she remarked, “ but I 
suppose he and I won’t meet very often, and I must 
put up with him when we do.” 

“ Thank God she does not know ! ” thought 
Harry, “ and please God she never shall ! ” 

Before they went to bed that night, Tom came 
into Harry’s room. “ The Bishop is boiling,” Tom 
said, “ about the International Eugenic Congress.” 
And taking a letter from his pocket, he read aloud : 

“ The modern, up-to-date devil does not roar 
like a lion — that would distract and scatter the 
heathen multitude. He therefore takes the form 
of Scientific Philanthropy, and disperses his emis- 
saries, scattering plausible and well-meant infamies 
throughout the modern world. His object is to 


320 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


minister to Dives (under the cloak of a hard-eyed 
and pitiless so-called sympathy with the poor, which 
hoodwinks the needy and the discontented). 

“ He wants to take the human mind away from 
all thought of God or Heaven, by fashioning an 
earthly paradise, where Dives is not only spared 
the sight or smell of Lazarus (that has already 
been effected by shutting up the latter from all inter- 
course with Dives), but where Lazarus may be 
extinguished for all time. In a recent work en- 
titled ‘ The Task of Hygiene ’ by Havelock Ellis, 
I find the following assertion : * The superficially 
sympathetic man flings a coin to a beggar ; the more 
deeply sympathetic man builds an almshouse for 
him; but perhaps the most radically sympathetic of 
all is the man who arranges that the beggar shall 
not be born! y 

“ Another fantastic devil’s deputy ( I think his 
name was Smith), coming from beyond seas to 
London to the International Eugenic Congress, 
proclaimed aloud in a brazen American accent, 
these bold words (repeated in newspaper headlines 
with glaring capitals) : ‘ I would rather have for 
a father a robust burglar than a consumptive 
Bishop ’ ! 

“ This would seem to be the dernier cn of dia- 
bolic hygiene! Perhaps I, being myself a Bishop, 
am led to believe that heathen madness could 
scarcely go further. 


THE DEED 


3 21 


“ The Bishop sends me also an editorial cut from 
an Anglican newspaper, which is really very in- 
teresting reading for an abnormal psychologist.” 
Tom gave Harry a newspaper clipping, which was 
entitled, “ Eugenics and Christianity.” It quoted 
from the speech of one distinguished professor of 
Eugenics, that “ social control ” must be gained 
not only by segregation, but must be accomplished 
finally by “ the elimination of undesirable units.” 
Another scientific philanthropist declared that an 
enlightened society “ will be much more pitiless in 
killing.” 

“ Great God ! ” Harry cried, laying down the 
newspaper. “ What a horrible vista of crimes, 
permitted and meritorious ! Viviani’s threat car- 
ried out — * the celestial lights extinguished, never 
to be lit again !' The Ultima Thule of Progres- 
sivism ! ” 

It is the fifteenth of October. The wedding is 
over, and our happy children are gone on a long 
honeymoon. Lady Bolton and I are both saddened 
and softened by the solemnity that one always feels, 
or should feel, at the marriage of a loved one who 
is going away into a new life, and, in a measure, 
from under the wing of former protection, like a 
bird leaving the nest. My dear belle-mere sud- 
denly throws her arms about my neck and sobs 
upon my shoulder. 


322 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 


“ Adolphe,” I hear her whisper, “ all these 
changes must bring us all closer together, and I 
want to tell you , first of all, before anybody else, 
that next time , I mean to hold that candle myself ! ” 
I knew what she alluded to. At Melanie’s bap- 
tism it had well-nigh broken Lady Bolton’s heart, 
and aroused much fury within her, that she, the 
grandmother and godmother, could not herself be 
permitted to hold the ceremonial candle, “ because,” 
as she used to say, “ I am a heretic! ” Of course 
her present announcement fills me with joy. 

“ God bless you, Belle-mere ” say I, kissing her 
on both cheeks. “ It seems like a miracle, that is 
all I can say.” 

“ I think,” says Lady Bolton, “ that two people 
are humanly responsible for it — poor little Cosmo, 
who is worrying about me up above, and dear little 
Melanie, who, I know, has been praying for me 
here below. But conversion is the grace of God, 
my dear Adolphe ! ” 

And so my story ends. 


ENVOI 


M Y belle-mere insisted upon presenting me (as 
a future “ heirloom ” ) on this festive oc- 
casion with a set of enormous pearl studs, which 
were wont to reveal their splendour upon the Am- 
bassadorial shirt-front of Melanie’s maternal grand- 
father. I did all I could to escape from wearing 
them; I suggested Harry — but Lady Bolton said 
no, that they are more suitable to my age and dig- 
nity. Ought I to say that she is mistaken? I 
mean by that, that these pearls are much too fine 
for me, a campagnard. They are also too splendid 
an accompaniment to my meagre person, having 
been accustomed to display themselves upon an 
ample space worthy of their size and brilliancy (for 
these pearls are really brilliant as well as bulky — 
not like an enormous necklace worn by a newly- 
rich lady, of which a witty grande dame once said : 
“They are not pearls — they are oysters!”) 

I remonstrated with my belle-mere , even hinting 
at the danger that I might become attached to 
them, and (which would mean death to an “heir- 
loom”) behave like the celebrated late Monsieur 
Bouchard, who had such magnificent pearls that he 
323 


324 SIR CHRISTOPHER LEIGHTON 

made a special request to be buried in them! All 
to no purpose. I wore to-day at her grand-daugh- 
ter’s wedding the shirt-buttons of Sir Frederick 
Bolton, making me feel that not only I was my- 
self but (at second-hand) the shade of Sir Fred- 
erick as well. I remember that a line of verse ran 
ridiculously through my head, from an English 
ballad, I forget what — “A ghost was seen in 
three old hats” — a most shameful levity to hover 
over a background of melancholy. 

For all the world I would not have my dear 
belle-mere to entertain the slightest suspicion about 
these inward qualms of mine (a kind of inherited 
tradition de famille, like twinges of a suppressed 
gout). She, dear lady, seemed very proud of my 
appearance; and I espied a tear trembling in her 
falcon eye, as it rested upon the late Sir Frederick’s 
buttons. He was a worthy man, God rest his soul ; 
but I really don’t feel quite at ease in his cast-off 
finery. I almost wish that he had followed the ex- 
ample of the celebrated late Monsieur Bouchard! 
Am I, after all, a mouse? I would not for any 
earthly consideration say “ no ” to my mother-in- 
law. Cela Ini ferait trop de peine. Is this to be a 
mouse and not a man ? 

I must leave this vexed question to the reader of 
this story to decide, in bidding him adieu. If he 
thinks that I began my narrative in deep earnest 
and have nevertheless strayed into levity often, he 


ENVOI 


3 2 5 


must remember the good old Irish saying, “ There’s 
many a true word spoken in jest.” He must re- 
member too, in excuse for my insignificant self, how 
one of the greatest souls that ever lived in England 
was full of a merry wit as well as of solid serious- 
ness. Mr. Addison has said of Sir Thomas More: 
“ What was philosophy in him would have been 
frenzy in any one who did not resemble him, as 
well in the cheerfulness of his temper as in the 
sanctity of his life and manners.” 

I have always felt convinced that a great deal 
of the persiflage with which my race is charged 
has underneath it, wherever there is a living faith, 
a reservoir of sanctity and devotion, all the clearer 
and deeper perhaps because of the froth which ef- 
fervesces on the surface. When the well of Truth 
and Faith within our souls shall be dried up, when 
we have nothing left but a frothy wit, then God 
help us all, in England as well as in France, and 
indeed throughout the whole of what used to be 
called Christendom! 

A. de Vaudreuil. 

January, 1913. 

Paris. 


THE END 


























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